BSG Fic: Two Ways Laura Roslin Didn't Die
I have literally no idea where these came from. I don't write drabbles. I don't write AU. And I definitely don't write Laura death. I'm posting these on the kind encouragement of plaid_slytherin and newnumbertwo who probably have no idea what they were prompting! Thanks to you both for the kind welcome to fandom!
The last time they saw each other she’d slapped him.
He’d felt no remorse about what he said to provoke her. Saul Tigh had never been big on remorse. Until they took her, not him, after the next suicide bombing.
He thought about leaving her there when the day came for everyone else to escape. He and Bill had done everything together for the past forty years. If he had to lose his woman, Bill damn well could too.
But he held Ellen in his arms as she died. He knew it was peaceful. That she wasn’t scared. He’d made sure she never understood what was happening.
Bill, on the other hand, would wonder for the rest of his life. He’d do more than wonder. He would dream up every possible scenario, each more tortuous than the last, until he broke into pieces.
He did it for Bill, not his pain in the ass, self-righteous school teacher. That’s what he told himself until he busted open the door of the cell and found her lying on the floor bleeding, her body shattered under the rough, threadbare material of the detention uniform.
Her strength was legend. Except it wasn’t. She opened her eyes when he turned her onto her back. It must have hurt like hell but she didn’t make a sound. A single trail of blood from her mouth snaking down her chin and then her neck was the only thing marring the pale beauty of her face.
“Come on, let’s get you out of here.”
“No.”
“Yes. I’m taking you back to Bill.”
“I won’t make it. Don’t make him remember me this way.”
He paused. Bill would have protested. He would have lied to her even though she knew the truth. She would have let him subject her to any and all fruitless attempts to undo the damage no matter how much she had to suffer.
In the end, he did it for her.
“Alright. Is there anything I can do?”
His fingers tickled the firearm at his side. She saw and shook her head weakly.
“No. How many ships do we still have on the ground?”
“Thirty-seven.”
“Ok. I’ll count the jumps.”
“What should I tell him?”
“You’ll think of something.”
Bill dreamt of his fiery prophet taking a bullet to the heart meant for his best friend. He would never forgive him. Saul never wanted him to.
Saul didn’t dream of Ellen or the Cylons ripping out his eye. It seemed fitting that his dreams were never accompanied by any images at all.
One.
Two.
Three.
She’d never asked him to do it directly. She loved him too much to put that responsibility on his young shoulders.
But she implied it.
At first he thought her frequent, casual mentions of how she hoped to die in her sleep were her way of willing her body to bend to her last command. In control, even of the end.
Then she told him her mother begged her to smother her with a pillow when the pain became too much to bear. She admitted she had tried but threw the offending cushion away when the woman in its folds started to grasp at her wrists in a weak struggle for breath.
She admitted she wished, after she saw what the end was really like, that she’d been brave enough to go through with it.
He couldn’t even think of it until she stopped asking about the number on the whiteboard. That was the day he knew she’d lost the will to live. The rest, all that was left for her, was pain.
He put enough chamalla in the tea so that, even in her weakened state, she would know it was far too much. She could choose to call it off. Part of him hoped she would. He hated the part of himself that hoped she wouldn’t.
“Your tea, Madame President.”
He held up the mug for her to see before helping her sit up.
She took a sip and closed her eyes with a long sigh.
“Thank you, Billy. Thank you.”
She found his hand and squeezed it tightly before taking another drink.
Neither of them spoke until she handed him the empty mug to sit down on the table.
“Stay with me?”
“Of course, Madame President.”
He’d worried she would cry out, become incoherent, or flail around like when she had one of her visions. He’d worried she would change her mind and it would be too late.
Instead her body relaxed slowly over what must have been hours but he’d never be sure. The lines around her eyes and mouth, prematurely deep from months of pressing back pain, seemed to retreat. He body sank deeper into the folds of the couch as her muscles loosened. Her eyes were open when her hand went slack in his own. There was, for once, no pain lingering in them. No fear or worry or regret. In fact, she looked blissful.
“I’m going to rest now, Billy.”
“Alright, Madame President. I’ll stay right here with you.”
He waited for a while after she drew her final, slow breath before placing the hand he held gently on her chest and walking out of the room. He waited in the chair outside of the curtain to her bedroom until morning came and the presidential office began to buzz with activity.
He was the only person on Colonial One who was surprised by his reaction to the sight of the president’s cold, lifeless body, so small under the covers. His screams brought the other aides running and he clung to her, crying into her hair, until Cottle came and pulled him away.
He was the one who opened the will she’d tucked into her desk drawer. Everyone knew there wouldn’t be an autopsy when the cause of death was so clear but she’d specified her wishes anyway. She’d known, or at least suspected, that he would go through with what she could not.
He didn’t delude himself into thinking what he had done was brave. He’d just done his job, a job he knew was more of a destiny.
After all, Laura Roslin’s will always won out in the end.
The last time they saw each other she’d slapped him.
He’d felt no remorse about what he said to provoke her. Saul Tigh had never been big on remorse. Until they took her, not him, after the next suicide bombing.
He thought about leaving her there when the day came for everyone else to escape. He and Bill had done everything together for the past forty years. If he had to lose his woman, Bill damn well could too.
But he held Ellen in his arms as she died. He knew it was peaceful. That she wasn’t scared. He’d made sure she never understood what was happening.
Bill, on the other hand, would wonder for the rest of his life. He’d do more than wonder. He would dream up every possible scenario, each more tortuous than the last, until he broke into pieces.
He did it for Bill, not his pain in the ass, self-righteous school teacher. That’s what he told himself until he busted open the door of the cell and found her lying on the floor bleeding, her body shattered under the rough, threadbare material of the detention uniform.
Her strength was legend. Except it wasn’t. She opened her eyes when he turned her onto her back. It must have hurt like hell but she didn’t make a sound. A single trail of blood from her mouth snaking down her chin and then her neck was the only thing marring the pale beauty of her face.
“Come on, let’s get you out of here.”
“No.”
“Yes. I’m taking you back to Bill.”
“I won’t make it. Don’t make him remember me this way.”
He paused. Bill would have protested. He would have lied to her even though she knew the truth. She would have let him subject her to any and all fruitless attempts to undo the damage no matter how much she had to suffer.
In the end, he did it for her.
“Alright. Is there anything I can do?”
His fingers tickled the firearm at his side. She saw and shook her head weakly.
“No. How many ships do we still have on the ground?”
“Thirty-seven.”
“Ok. I’ll count the jumps.”
“What should I tell him?”
“You’ll think of something.”
Bill dreamt of his fiery prophet taking a bullet to the heart meant for his best friend. He would never forgive him. Saul never wanted him to.
Saul didn’t dream of Ellen or the Cylons ripping out his eye. It seemed fitting that his dreams were never accompanied by any images at all.
One.
Two.
Three.
She’d never asked him to do it directly. She loved him too much to put that responsibility on his young shoulders.
But she implied it.
At first he thought her frequent, casual mentions of how she hoped to die in her sleep were her way of willing her body to bend to her last command. In control, even of the end.
Then she told him her mother begged her to smother her with a pillow when the pain became too much to bear. She admitted she had tried but threw the offending cushion away when the woman in its folds started to grasp at her wrists in a weak struggle for breath.
She admitted she wished, after she saw what the end was really like, that she’d been brave enough to go through with it.
He couldn’t even think of it until she stopped asking about the number on the whiteboard. That was the day he knew she’d lost the will to live. The rest, all that was left for her, was pain.
He put enough chamalla in the tea so that, even in her weakened state, she would know it was far too much. She could choose to call it off. Part of him hoped she would. He hated the part of himself that hoped she wouldn’t.
“Your tea, Madame President.”
He held up the mug for her to see before helping her sit up.
She took a sip and closed her eyes with a long sigh.
“Thank you, Billy. Thank you.”
She found his hand and squeezed it tightly before taking another drink.
Neither of them spoke until she handed him the empty mug to sit down on the table.
“Stay with me?”
“Of course, Madame President.”
He’d worried she would cry out, become incoherent, or flail around like when she had one of her visions. He’d worried she would change her mind and it would be too late.
Instead her body relaxed slowly over what must have been hours but he’d never be sure. The lines around her eyes and mouth, prematurely deep from months of pressing back pain, seemed to retreat. He body sank deeper into the folds of the couch as her muscles loosened. Her eyes were open when her hand went slack in his own. There was, for once, no pain lingering in them. No fear or worry or regret. In fact, she looked blissful.
“I’m going to rest now, Billy.”
“Alright, Madame President. I’ll stay right here with you.”
He waited for a while after she drew her final, slow breath before placing the hand he held gently on her chest and walking out of the room. He waited in the chair outside of the curtain to her bedroom until morning came and the presidential office began to buzz with activity.
He was the only person on Colonial One who was surprised by his reaction to the sight of the president’s cold, lifeless body, so small under the covers. His screams brought the other aides running and he clung to her, crying into her hair, until Cottle came and pulled him away.
He was the one who opened the will she’d tucked into her desk drawer. Everyone knew there wouldn’t be an autopsy when the cause of death was so clear but she’d specified her wishes anyway. She’d known, or at least suspected, that he would go through with what she could not.
He didn’t delude himself into thinking what he had done was brave. He’d just done his job, a job he knew was more of a destiny.
After all, Laura Roslin’s will always won out in the end.