He'd been on the bridge all morning, then tended to Council business all afternoon -- if playing referee to adults acting like squabbling schoolchildren could be described as Council business. When he'd first been elected as Caprica's representative to the Council of Twelve, he'd accepted the position only because as an active military Commander, his actual presence at meetings would be severely curtailed.
For yahrens he'd been able to serve as Caprica's Councilman via communicator, issuing his opinions and votes from a safe and quiet distance. Now, with the remaining survivors of the twelve colonies crammed together on a handful of ships, the other Council members had distressingly easy access to him.
Adama always felt guilty when he thought of consequences of the Destruction in terms of the Council harassing him. But it was undeniable that, along with every other horrible thing that was wrong now -- the Council bothering him with stupid things was annoying.
Today he'd spent so much time trying to corral two grown men who'd been acting like 8-yahren old boys, that he'd been unable to get to his office until after evening meal. Adama would have loved to have spent the rest of the evening playing with his grandson, or talking with his children, or just resting in his quarters. But duty had called, and so here he was.
He'd been at it for a centar now and the piles hadn't got any smaller.
He rubbed his temples and wondered if he could get them all done in the morning before his shift on the bridge. It was possible he could, but he hated leaving the work for morning. There was no guarantee he'd have any more time tomorrow as he'd had today, and he'd be even more behind if he left too much.
Adama laughed at the irony. There was a time, as a young pilot, when he'd put off anything resembling reports and filework until the last minute, conning his wingman into doing most of it for him. His sense of irresponsibility had lasted until he'd been promoted to Colonel, and he'd been the one having work foisted off on him, by his Commander.
Commander Rustilon had taken great glee in doing so.
Now, after Rustilon's tutelage, the sense of responsibility had taken hold enough that he never passed along his work at all if he could help it. But right now he was suddenly very tempted to call Tigh and see if he had a half centar to spare.
The door chimed, and wearily he called for whomever it was, to enter. Adama had a brief vision of his filework being even more delayed, but he grinned when Tigh stepped inside. The idea of being interrupted was suddenly a pleasing one.
"Adama," Tigh nodded, by way of greeting. He looked a bit confused but pleased at the force Adama's reaction to his entrance.
Adama considered telling him he had a stack of reports for him to complete. Then again... he might be here with *more* work. He frowned slightly. "Colonel...?"
"I just stopped by to see how you were getting on," Tigh said, correctly interpreting the reason for Adama's smile vanishing so quickly. "It looks like I came none too soon." He looked at the work on Adama's desk. "It's late."
"Yes," Adama agreed. "Tell that to the Council." He rubbed his head again, trying not to think about in. "I gave up being a father to small children long ago. I don't really miss it *that* much. And my children where never... no, I take that back. They were that bad sometimes." He smiled in remembrance, and Tigh laughed.
"I was going to say. I know what they were like." Tigh moved towards the chair opposite Adama's desk, when he paused and looked more closely at Adama.
Adama waited a moment, then raised an eyebrow. "Is there something more?"
"Are you going to be finished with that soon?" He nodded towards the viewscreen.
Adama could hear the incipient lecture in Tigh's voice. Working too hard, he always said. Making an executive decision, he shook his head. "I'll finish it in the morning. There's too much to do now."
"Good choice." Tigh nodded, and looked at him. "You work too hard."
"It isn't as though I have a choice," Adama began, unreasonably irritated that Tigh thought he should let any of this slide. Too much at at stake-- He brushed the thought aside. Tigh knew. "What did you--"
He broke off as Tigh stepped back towards him, sitting on the corner of the desk. Looked down at him very seriously. Adama would have had to push his chair back to get out of his personal space. There was, of course, no need or desire to do so.
He realised he'd started feeling more relaxed the moment Tigh had walked in, despite the brief flare of irritation. That was normal; the day Tigh's presence didn't relax him was the day he'd worry. For a moment neither of them spoke, sitting there and looking at each other. Tigh's smile was the first to break and he laughed.
"Shall I invite myself?" he asked. "If you really are through here." He nodded to the desk where Adama's hands still rested, inches away from the lightpen. In case he wanted to finish just one more.
Adama used to lose entire nights to 'just one more.' Yahrens ago, before Tigh was transfered to the Galactica. Since then, however, he'd suffered under a combination of Tigh's mother-henning and the way Tigh would smile at him and incline his head towards the closed bedroom door.
Ila used to say she thanked the lords each night, after Tigh was re-assigned to the Galactica. She trusted him to look after her husband, treated him like the co-spouse Tigh presumed to be.
Adama sometimes wished they'd had a chance to make that official, before...
There was too much thinking of 'before,' he decided. Tigh was here, smiling at him, and the evening was far too late to think of anything other than going to bed.
He pushed the chair far away from the desk, ignored the lightpen as it rolled towards the pile of reports. Trivial things as tidying up could go undone. As he stood up, Tigh stood as well and took his hand.
Tigh's hand was warm, his skin dry; the mark of a man who spent all his time in recycled air. Adama couldn't recall the last time he'd felt the thick, heavy air of a planet's humid atmosphere like Caprica City's summers. Or the cold, frozen air of the northern states' winters, where his grandparents had lived and he'd spent winter holidays as a boy. The weather's extremes were something they'd complained so bitterly about and now he couldn't even recall how it felt to have skin hydrated by the air.
"Where are you, Adama?" Tigh asked, startling Adama from his memories.
"I'm right here." He pushed away thoughts of planets, and filework, and everything else but one. The last time he'd been home, saying goodbye to his wife, she'd kissed him and told him to let Tigh take care of him.
When Tigh pulled him into the bedroom and shut the door, he thought that perhaps she would be pleased.