Better Left Unsaid (11/12)
Title: Better Left Unsaid (Part 11/12)
Author: snoopy0917
Pairing: Bill Adama/Laura Roslin
Rating: MA
Timeline: Crossroads Part 1 through Escape Velocity
Summary: There were the things Laura Roslin wanted and the things Laura Roslin needed. In a simpler world they would have overlapped. Instead, they stood in stark, irreconcilable conflict.
A/N: Warning...this chapter is short. :(
I don’t own the characters. If I did, I’d have a lot more money. However, the story is all mine.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6
Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12
She wanted him to see her.
It was too late to escape the reality of the disease. She knew it every time she looked in the mirror. Every time her hands trembled when she lifted her bag. Every time her body ached with nausea and fatigue. Every time she brushed aside hair that wasn’t her own.
She was fading. Energy and vitality slowly seeping away from her body, ignoring every desperate attempt she made to save it.
The good days were coming less frequently. She didn’t have many of them left.
The cancer was taking her a piece at a time. Slowly, carefully dismantling her body from the inside out. Disease and drugs working in sick concert to hollow her out with a clinical thoroughness she couldn’t fight.
This time wouldn’t end with a miracle cure.
Baltar saw it immediately. As soon as he shut his self-serving mouth and actually looked. She saw the recognition in his eyes. The surprised spark as he processed her newly gaunt frame and the waxy pallor coloring her cheeks.
Bill only saw what he wanted to see.
He still saw the woman she once was - healthy and vigorous and brimming with mischief. He refused to open his eyes to reality, to take off his stubborn filter and accept the stark lines of what she was becoming.
In his eyes, she would always be beautiful.
The thought made her throat burn more than the drugs ever could.
He came home late that night. So late that she’d given up on him and gone to bed, cramped rack oddly empty without his broad shoulders to crowd her towards the edges of the bunk.
He was careful, quiet, but she barely slept now. And he was less coordinated than he liked to think. She heard the slight creak of the hatch as it stuck mid-swing. The muffled thunk as he shed his boots and dropped them by the door. The rustle of fabric as he stripped off his jacket. The long, heavy pause as he looked at her in his rack, barely illuminated by the monitors behind his desk.
She waited silently for him to move to the next step in his routine. For him to shuffle into the bathroom and blindly brush his teeth, fumbling as he refused to risk waking her by turning on the light. For the swoosh of fabric falling to the floor as he shed the rest of his clothes and gingerly crawled naked into bed beside her.
A sharp clang of glass echoed through the room, followed by a swallowed curse. She listened silently to the sloshing of liquid and the muted clinks of glass against wood. To the heavy shuffle of his feet soften as he walked away from her. To the creaky protest of worn leather as he dropped into his couch with a pained grunt.
Laura listened for long moments, sighing as the room remained still. Her fists clenched at the clink of glass and the labored sound of Bill’s choked breathing.
He was drunk. She knew it long before she got out of bed. Long before she saw his hands tremble. Long before she was close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath. Long before she heard his voice, thicker and slower than normal.
He was seeing more than he wanted to admit.
Quietly, carefully, Laura wrapped herself in his robe, and walked towards him. She stopped at the curve in the bulkhead, pausing for a long moment to look at him. At her Bill. Sitting alone in the dark, jacket tossed carelessly onto the couch, in grave danger of slipping unwanted to the floor. Eyes closed. Hair mussed. Head dropped back on the ledge behind the cushions. Bare muscles of his arms rippling as he drained the rest of his glass and dropped his hands between his spread legs.
A half empty bottle of rotgut liquor sat on the chest in front of him. Next to a worn, leather-bound book. She didn’t need to check the spine to know that it was his favorite.
Bill Adama didn’t do endings.
Laura padded barefoot the rest of the way to the couch, clutching at her arms to ward off the chill that always followed her now. Sinking onto the leather beside him, she tucked her feet under the robe, arranging herself carefully before brushing his messy hair away from his temple.
“Hey.”
He turned his head into her touch, eyes unfocused for far too long as he looked at her.
“Hey,” he answered back, one hand abandoning his glass to snag the hand not in his hair. His fingers tangled with hers, thumb tracing the curve of her wrist and the raised veins decorating her skin. He looked away from her, concentrating on an invisible spot across the room.
She tightened her fingers around his. Wound her arm around his neck, buried her nose into his hair and waited for him to speak. He smelled of liquor and smoke and dried sweat, subtle clues that told her far more about his evening that his words would.
“Had to bust down the Chief.”
She kissed the side of his head, soothingly running her fingers across his skull as his voice thickened and caught.
“He’s not taking it well. He…” Bill searched for words for a long time before giving up. Shaking his head and unsteadily pouring another glass, he drained it mindlessly. “They were good kids.”
“Come to bed, Bill.”
She pried the empty glass from his unresisting fingers and led him to their rack. Stripped off the rest of their clothes, climbed between the sheets and wrapped herself around him.
Her arms tightened around his shoulders, pressing deeply into the smooth, sweaty muscles of his back, breathing in his scent, strong and sharp beneath the lingering layers of grief. Bill shifted against the mattress, rolling onto his back and enfolding her in his arms. Clutching her close and tight, almost to the point of pain.
Harsh breaths tattooed her temple as he grasped for words.
“Laura…”
“I know,” she murmured, cupping his jaw and kissing him softly before settling into his side, smoothing her hands soothingly across his broad chest. “I have another treatment tomorrow.”
His arms tightened around her, squeezing her to the point of breathlessness. His mouth kissed across her forehead, lips tasting every inch of skin he could find.
“I’ll be there.”
“Read me the first chapter?”
His breathing hitched, one hand dropping to trace delicate words into her spine.
“Yeah, I will.”
Burying her face into the space between neck and jaw, Laura tried to convince herself that the salty wetness coating her cheeks was sweat, not tears.
She shouldn’t indulge him any longer.
She couldn’t take away his hope.
Author: snoopy0917
Pairing: Bill Adama/Laura Roslin
Rating: MA
Timeline: Crossroads Part 1 through Escape Velocity
Summary: There were the things Laura Roslin wanted and the things Laura Roslin needed. In a simpler world they would have overlapped. Instead, they stood in stark, irreconcilable conflict.
A/N: Warning...this chapter is short. :(
I don’t own the characters. If I did, I’d have a lot more money. However, the story is all mine.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6
Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12
She wanted him to see her.
It was too late to escape the reality of the disease. She knew it every time she looked in the mirror. Every time her hands trembled when she lifted her bag. Every time her body ached with nausea and fatigue. Every time she brushed aside hair that wasn’t her own.
She was fading. Energy and vitality slowly seeping away from her body, ignoring every desperate attempt she made to save it.
The good days were coming less frequently. She didn’t have many of them left.
The cancer was taking her a piece at a time. Slowly, carefully dismantling her body from the inside out. Disease and drugs working in sick concert to hollow her out with a clinical thoroughness she couldn’t fight.
This time wouldn’t end with a miracle cure.
Baltar saw it immediately. As soon as he shut his self-serving mouth and actually looked. She saw the recognition in his eyes. The surprised spark as he processed her newly gaunt frame and the waxy pallor coloring her cheeks.
Bill only saw what he wanted to see.
He still saw the woman she once was - healthy and vigorous and brimming with mischief. He refused to open his eyes to reality, to take off his stubborn filter and accept the stark lines of what she was becoming.
In his eyes, she would always be beautiful.
The thought made her throat burn more than the drugs ever could.
He came home late that night. So late that she’d given up on him and gone to bed, cramped rack oddly empty without his broad shoulders to crowd her towards the edges of the bunk.
He was careful, quiet, but she barely slept now. And he was less coordinated than he liked to think. She heard the slight creak of the hatch as it stuck mid-swing. The muffled thunk as he shed his boots and dropped them by the door. The rustle of fabric as he stripped off his jacket. The long, heavy pause as he looked at her in his rack, barely illuminated by the monitors behind his desk.
She waited silently for him to move to the next step in his routine. For him to shuffle into the bathroom and blindly brush his teeth, fumbling as he refused to risk waking her by turning on the light. For the swoosh of fabric falling to the floor as he shed the rest of his clothes and gingerly crawled naked into bed beside her.
A sharp clang of glass echoed through the room, followed by a swallowed curse. She listened silently to the sloshing of liquid and the muted clinks of glass against wood. To the heavy shuffle of his feet soften as he walked away from her. To the creaky protest of worn leather as he dropped into his couch with a pained grunt.
Laura listened for long moments, sighing as the room remained still. Her fists clenched at the clink of glass and the labored sound of Bill’s choked breathing.
He was drunk. She knew it long before she got out of bed. Long before she saw his hands tremble. Long before she was close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath. Long before she heard his voice, thicker and slower than normal.
He was seeing more than he wanted to admit.
Quietly, carefully, Laura wrapped herself in his robe, and walked towards him. She stopped at the curve in the bulkhead, pausing for a long moment to look at him. At her Bill. Sitting alone in the dark, jacket tossed carelessly onto the couch, in grave danger of slipping unwanted to the floor. Eyes closed. Hair mussed. Head dropped back on the ledge behind the cushions. Bare muscles of his arms rippling as he drained the rest of his glass and dropped his hands between his spread legs.
A half empty bottle of rotgut liquor sat on the chest in front of him. Next to a worn, leather-bound book. She didn’t need to check the spine to know that it was his favorite.
Bill Adama didn’t do endings.
Laura padded barefoot the rest of the way to the couch, clutching at her arms to ward off the chill that always followed her now. Sinking onto the leather beside him, she tucked her feet under the robe, arranging herself carefully before brushing his messy hair away from his temple.
“Hey.”
He turned his head into her touch, eyes unfocused for far too long as he looked at her.
“Hey,” he answered back, one hand abandoning his glass to snag the hand not in his hair. His fingers tangled with hers, thumb tracing the curve of her wrist and the raised veins decorating her skin. He looked away from her, concentrating on an invisible spot across the room.
She tightened her fingers around his. Wound her arm around his neck, buried her nose into his hair and waited for him to speak. He smelled of liquor and smoke and dried sweat, subtle clues that told her far more about his evening that his words would.
“Had to bust down the Chief.”
She kissed the side of his head, soothingly running her fingers across his skull as his voice thickened and caught.
“He’s not taking it well. He…” Bill searched for words for a long time before giving up. Shaking his head and unsteadily pouring another glass, he drained it mindlessly. “They were good kids.”
“Come to bed, Bill.”
She pried the empty glass from his unresisting fingers and led him to their rack. Stripped off the rest of their clothes, climbed between the sheets and wrapped herself around him.
Her arms tightened around his shoulders, pressing deeply into the smooth, sweaty muscles of his back, breathing in his scent, strong and sharp beneath the lingering layers of grief. Bill shifted against the mattress, rolling onto his back and enfolding her in his arms. Clutching her close and tight, almost to the point of pain.
Harsh breaths tattooed her temple as he grasped for words.
“Laura…”
“I know,” she murmured, cupping his jaw and kissing him softly before settling into his side, smoothing her hands soothingly across his broad chest. “I have another treatment tomorrow.”
His arms tightened around her, squeezing her to the point of breathlessness. His mouth kissed across her forehead, lips tasting every inch of skin he could find.
“I’ll be there.”
“Read me the first chapter?”
His breathing hitched, one hand dropping to trace delicate words into her spine.
“Yeah, I will.”
Burying her face into the space between neck and jaw, Laura tried to convince herself that the salty wetness coating her cheeks was sweat, not tears.
She shouldn’t indulge him any longer.
She couldn’t take away his hope.