Better Left Unsaid (3/12)
Title: Better Left Unsaid (Part 3/12)
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: Huge thanks go to icedteainthebag and i_am_davnee for betaing, and for zaleti and larsfarm77 for reading it through and giving me some insightful comments. And to flamingo55 and unavitasegreta for reading through bits and pieces ages ago and offering opinions. And to tjonesy who with a stray comment a year ago, prompted me to turn this short story into a very long and much more complex one.
All the remaining mistakes within the fic are mine and mine alone. I probably ignored some good advice or something. :D
This story is complete in ten parts. I’ll be posting a part a day until it’s completed. Oh, and btw, 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 almost moved out after Baltar’s acquittal. When Bill told her about his vote, it cost her every last ounce of self-restraint not to turn on her heels in the CIC, march straight down to his quarters, and clean out every last thing she owned. But she didn’t. Bill was lucky he called for the jump when he did though. Her palm was just itching to slap him.
Still was, actually.
She knew exactly what Bill was trying to do. He was more like Lee than he cared to admit. He still believed in abstract concepts of black and white. In starry-eyed idealism that refused to be tempered by the reality of their situation. In duty and loyalty and the power of what was right. The defense made their case. The prosecution didn’t. It was as simple as that.
Baltar had won the election. She hadn’t. She’d listened to Bill then. And their morality had demanded a price in lives.
Bill was still too godsdamned soft. And she never should have stopped being so bloody-minded.
She didn’t have time to play nice anymore. She needed to settle things, sweep them up into a tidy bow and get the Fleet into some semblance of order. Baltar was a loose end. A dangerous distraction. A shifty, untrustworthy, despicable frak-weasal. She didn’t need a trial to tell her he was guilty.
Apparently, the Admiral did.
She should have let Bill throw the frakker out the airlock when he’d offered. But she’d wanted the trial. Had needed to make Gaius Baltar suffer, make him see exactly what he’d been responsible for. She needed this. They all did, to finally cleanse their souls of the heavy weight they had been carrying since New Caprica. To excise the undercurrents simmering beneath the veil of forgiveness and reconciliation.
She’d miscalculated. And now Bill thought they could all just move on and have a fresh start. He’d told her that they needed to look to the future.
She had.
She could see her future so very clearly. It was a stark series of months, filled with nauseating treatments and diminishing strength. A future of watching her body decay and shrivel until she was finally too weak to carry on. Until her flesh surrendered and the cancer spread to her brain.
She could see his future too. He was already cracking, deep chinks in his armor that would multiply until he crumbled under the weight. She could see the pain in his eyes when they lingered on her. Could see the heaviness in his heart when he looked at Lee. Could see his expression soften when he looked at that thing locked in the brig that was claiming to be Kara. He wanted to believe the girl instead of accepting the obvious truth that Kara Thrace was a cylon.
Bill had a future on Earth. She had cancer. And if the prophecies were right, she’d never even see the place.
She needed him to toughen up if they were going to get there.
###
She’d planned the conversation long before he’d walked through the hatch. It was all she’d thought about during her treatments. She’d distracted herself with words and phrases while ignoring the IV. Had plotted her plan of attack while curled on the cold floor of the bathroom, trying to calm her stomach as it churned with a cocktail of drugs and nerves.
Laura chose her words carefully. Sparse, direct phrases aimed to cut deep. To wound mercilessly. To strip away Bill’s denial and delusions and make him see the stark truths confronting them.
She hadn’t expected him to come home drunk. But, it made things easier.
Laura had wanted to hurt him. Had wanted to make Bill hurt her. To goad him, taunt him until he cut into her with cruel, unrestrained truths. Until he lashed out and wounded her with the ugly side of his personality.
She wanted to want him less.
Laura flinched as the door to the head slammed behind him.
It hadn’t helped.
One hand clutched at her stomach, the other at her mouth as she struggled to muffle her sobs. To swallow them and push aside the emotion. Her eyes squeezed shut, blotting out the clump of lifeless hair staring at her from the table. She refused to touch the rest of the strands, afraid to find the other loose locks scattered across her skull threatening to slip free from the root at any moment.
First the nausea. Now her hair. Things would progress more quickly now. She was tired all the time. She already had been, long before the cancer had returned. Now it would magnify, fatigue overtaking her moods, her work, her ability to think. The weakness would follow. Dizziness. Headaches. Bones aching as they grew brittle. Muscles and nerves dulling, atrophying, refusing to remain under her control. The side effects of her medications conspiring against her. Forcing her to waste away within her own skin.
She saw her mother lying frail and helpless in a hospital bed every time she closed her eyes. Surrounded by scores of machines pumping her full of drugs that sapped her vitality.
The cure was just as bad as the disease. And the damn cure didn’t cure anything.
She had seen too much senseless death. The death of her family and the death of her civilization. Elosha, Billy, Maya, and so many others. Death had led her here. So much death.
Maybe hers could make it all worth it.
Laura closed her eyes and focused on breathing. On stopping her tears. On the sharp, echoing sounds of Bill storming around in the bathroom. The hissing of running water in the sink. A harsh gasp and muffled curses, followed by the clang of metal against metal. He was shaving, unsteady hand nicking his skin as he worked. Familiar noises marred by the heavy rattle of the glass against the cluttered vanity. She wondered how long it would be before he gave up on the glass and started drinking straight out of the bottle.
He was right. She was afraid to die alone. And it made living with him even harder.
Wiping away her tears with the heel of her palms, Laura steadied herself, deep cleansing breaths centering her emotions. Opening her eyes, she studied the lifeless hunk of hair, silently taking its measure. Ripping a sheet of paper from her reports, she meticulously folded it around the dull strands. Sealed them tight and hid the crumpled sheet deep inside her briefcase. She’d dispose of it later. Bill didn’t need to know. She couldn’t handle the look in his eyes if he knew.
The bathroom door banged open with twice the force needed. Bill leaned heavily on the doorframe, searching for his balance before staggering out of the head. She watched him lurch defiantly towards his stash of liquor, swearing sharply as he stumbled over his own feet, coordination long gone. He refused to look at her as he filled up his glass and shuffled towards the rack, bottle still in hand.
Sitting hard on the mattress, Bill attacked his boots, dropping each shoe to the deck with a heavy crash, making far too much noise just to piss her off before turning his full attention back to his emptying glass.
Laura did her damndest to ignore him, leaning intently over her work and hiding her expression with a well-placed hand.
They both stayed that way for a long time. Waiting for his vision to clear. Waiting for it to all go away. Waiting for a sign. Waiting for something.
She was tired of this shit.
She was tired.
She pushed back from the table, letting the heavy legs of the chair scrape loudly against the floor, hoping the grating noise only enhanced the throbbing that had to be blossoming in Bill’s skull. Methodically, she packed up her workspace, readying her bag for the long list of meetings scheduled in the morning. When she ran out of things to straighten, Laura folded her arms across her stomach and strode towards the bed to retrieve her pajamas.
Bill was slouched across the mattress. Empty glass clenched in his white-knuckled grip. Morose look drowning his features. He didn’t bother sitting up. Instead, he focused intently on his hands, ignoring her as she snagged her clothes from under the pillow and chose her words carefully.
“Get off my bed.”
His eyes flashed when he looked at hers, swirling emotions flicking through them before his jaw clenched and he glared back at her.
“It’s my frakking bed.”
She made it halfway to the bathroom before turning back to the body slumped across the comforter.
“You’re a mean, pathetic drunk.”
Bill’s jaw tightened, glare dark and angry and shamed as he spat out his answer.
“And you’re a real bitch sometimes.”
Laura ignored the renewed sting pricking the corners of her eyes as she slammed the door to the bathroom. She’d asked for it.
He was still on the bed when she came out, freshly washed and changed. Bill perched on the edge of the rack, elbows on his knees, shoulders hunched as he hung his head and stared at the floor.
Laura ignored his sallow skin and shaking hands, walking towards her half of the closet and carefully hanging her suit pieces. She slammed the closet door with a loud smack before bending over and rummaging through the storage compartment. She heard Bill shift against the mattress. Caught the slight movements out of the corner of her eye as he lifted his head and watched her with a deep, pained expression.
“What are you doing?”
She pulled the spare blanket and pillow from their hiding place, ignoring their musty, threadbare state. She refused to use his bedding for this.
“What do you think I’m doing?”
His mouth moved silently for words that wouldn’t come, stockinged foot knocking over the empty glass on the floor. His shoulders slumped, sulky self-loathing etching its way across his face. She ignored him, dumping her armful on the couch before walking back to shut off the lights.
“Your back’s gonna regret it.”
His voice stopped her in her tracks. She turned back to him, her hand hovering over the light switch as their eyes locked across the room.
“Frak off, Bill.”
Stubbornly ignoring his warnings, Laura flicked off the lights in the main part of the cabin and curled under the scratchy blanket on the couch. She didn’t want to sleep in his bed tonight. Surrounded by the scent of him that wouldn’t leave. That would pervade her senses and make her want to forgive him.
Laura clung to her anger, savoring the vivid burn of emotion as it worked through her chest. She needed to feel something else for a change.
She woke to the hollow, wrenching sound of Bill vomiting his guts out.
Laura blinked her eyes open and stared at the ceiling through the murky darkness. It was the middle of the night. She hadn’t slept well. Her body ached, back throbbing from the unfamiliar give of the couch. Her limbs felt cramped and stiff from trying to stay put on the slippery leather.
Bill had told her so. She hated him a little more for being right.
The tinny noises of his retching were roiling her stomach, reminding her of her own, extended visit to the head earlier in the evening. She swallowed the faint traces of bile burning the back of her throat and focused on him.
The high, hollow sound echoed through her head, far too loud in the small rooms. Far louder than she’d ever guessed, even with door closed and the sink wasting water. Laura couldn’t help but wonder if she was that loud. If the sick sounds of vomit and frustration kept him company when she locked herself inside the bathroom after her treatments and tried to be quiet. She wondered if Bill could still hear her long after she’d emptied her stomach into the bowl. If her quiet sobs were nearly as audible.
She could leave him alone to suffer. She should. He needed to get used to the idea. He needed to begin to comprehend the reality of her absence. She needed to distance them before he entwined them too fully.
Besides, he deserved it.
Instead she thought about the nights he’d already spent crouched silently by her side as she hunched over the bowl. Soft hands soothing her hair away from her face. Strong fingers kneading into the muscles of her neck and back, coaxing the tremors from her body. Aging knees popping as he lifted her from the floor and helped her to his bed. About the countless nights he’d spend in the exact same way.
Laura pushed aside the blankets and padded silently towards the bathroom. She opened the door softly and leaned against the frame, squinting to see him in the light spilling in from the lamp on his desk. Bill was propped crookedly against the wall, eyes closed, head dropped back, labored breathing echoing through the small room.
She reached out a hand and flicked on the light over the mirror. He groaned in response, weakly turning his head to shield his eyes from the pounding brightness.
Laura considered him for a long moment, studying his sweat-soaked tanks and pained expression. Turning towards the sink, she wet a clean washcloth under the tap, and filled a glass with the lukewarm water, before turning off the faucet and kneeling by his side.
"You look like shit."
“Yeah.” Bill’s husky voice croaked his agreement.
She ran the cloth across his face, fighting her own shaky stomach as she cleaned the tacky sweat and sour smell from his skin. Bill sighed, head moving unconsciously into the swipes of the fabric, jaw tilting to let her wash his neck and shoulders. Cautiously testing the brightness of the room, Bill cracked his eyelids, gradually opening them and watching her as his vision adjusted to the light.
“I wake you?”
“No,” she lied, practiced voice betraying nothing, steady hand holding out the glass. “I don’t sleep well anymore.”
“Frak,” Bill winced again, from the light or her words, she couldn’t tell. Leaning forward, Bill braced his elbows against his knees, dropping his head against his forearms and grunting.
“Go back to bed, Laura,” he croaked softly, voice managing none of its normal gravitas.
“You done?”
Bill didn't answer. Instead, he eyed her queasily before leaning over the toilet again and vomiting the rest of the acid lining his stomach.
Laura shifted to sit against the chilly floor, leaning against the cabinet to watch him. Bill rested his forehead against the toilet for a long time, sighing as the cool metal soothed his clammy skin. She ignored the tile digging into her skin - easy as her knees had already grown accustomed to the dull pain. Her fingers snuck underneath his stained tanks, sketching soothing patterns across the strong muscles of his back as he managed to lift his head long enough to sip the glass of water. She resisted the urge to fold his body into her arms. To kiss his temple and nuzzle his hair as he relaxed into her touch.
She could feel his breathing grow heavy under her hand. Shaking her head at his obstinacy, Laura shook his shoulder, yanking a grunt out of Bill as she forced him back into a semblance of consciousness.
“Wake the frak up, Bill. Or you’re sleeping on the floor.”
Glaring at her with half-lidded eyes, Bill stubbornly pushed himself off from the deck, clutching at the counter and muttering curses when he stood too quickly and blood rushed from his head. Laura steadied him, catching him around the waist and praying he wouldn’t fall. He was far too bulky for her to hold up and if he toppled over, he’d take her with him.
He was heavy, but she managed, leading him in slow, unsteady steps to drop onto his bed. He shook his head, grunting in disapproval as she pulled back the covers and pushed him to lie flat across the mattress.
“You get the rack, Laura,” he slurred, struggling to regain enough coordination to push his bulk back up and stumble to the couch.
“Shut up and lie down, Bill.”
Bill fumbled for a few moments before giving up, collapsing against the bed with muttered curses and intense self-loathing.
“I’m pathetic.”
“You’re still drunk.”
“You’re still pissed.”
“No I’m not,” she confessed softly. “Go to sleep, Bill.”
“M‘kay.” he answered groggily, breathing already starting to slow. “Laura?”
“Bill?”
“Come to bed,” he mumbled sleepily, fingers groping blindly to wind with hers and tug her towards him. He shifted towards the far end of the mattress, tucking his body against the wall, clearing her side of the bed next to him as he drifted into sleep.
Laura sat on the edge of the rack for long moments. His breathing evened, steady cadence marred only by the grumpy huffs he made when intoxicated. The empty space between them stared back at her. A narrow sliver of mattress that seemed so vast, filled only by their entwined hands.
Untangling their fingers, she drew the blanket up to cover his body, gingerly tucking him in before brushing the hair away from his clammy forehead. He shifted against the mattress, hand inching across the blankets searching for her as he slept. She watched his brow furrow at the loss of contact, then soothe when the tips of his fingers found her thigh.
It would be so easy to crawl in beside him, fights and anger and cancer forgotten. To feel his arms wrap around her. His chest firm against her back. His hand warm and soft against her stomach. His breath hot against her neck as his face buried deep into her thick hair…
Throat dry, she stood and walked back into the bathroom. Quietly, she cleaned up the rest of Bill’s mess and washed the streaked tears from her face. Unsteady fingers ran through her hair, collecting all the loose strands they could find and flushing them down the toilet. Laura looked at her reflection for a long time before wrapping her robe tighter around her and going back to sleep on the couch.
They never talked about it. Never even acknowledged it. Except for that brief moment the next morning when he brought her coffee and looked deep into her eyes.
She told Tory to find her some damned guest quarters by the end of the day.
She still didn’t leave.
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: Huge thanks go to icedteainthebag and i_am_davnee for betaing, and for zaleti and larsfarm77 for reading it through and giving me some insightful comments. And to flamingo55 and unavitasegreta for reading through bits and pieces ages ago and offering opinions. And to tjonesy who with a stray comment a year ago, prompted me to turn this short story into a very long and much more complex one.
All the remaining mistakes within the fic are mine and mine alone. I probably ignored some good advice or something. :D
This story is complete in ten parts. I’ll be posting a part a day until it’s completed. Oh, and btw, 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 almost moved out after Baltar’s acquittal. When Bill told her about his vote, it cost her every last ounce of self-restraint not to turn on her heels in the CIC, march straight down to his quarters, and clean out every last thing she owned. But she didn’t. Bill was lucky he called for the jump when he did though. Her palm was just itching to slap him.
Still was, actually.
She knew exactly what Bill was trying to do. He was more like Lee than he cared to admit. He still believed in abstract concepts of black and white. In starry-eyed idealism that refused to be tempered by the reality of their situation. In duty and loyalty and the power of what was right. The defense made their case. The prosecution didn’t. It was as simple as that.
Baltar had won the election. She hadn’t. She’d listened to Bill then. And their morality had demanded a price in lives.
Bill was still too godsdamned soft. And she never should have stopped being so bloody-minded.
She didn’t have time to play nice anymore. She needed to settle things, sweep them up into a tidy bow and get the Fleet into some semblance of order. Baltar was a loose end. A dangerous distraction. A shifty, untrustworthy, despicable frak-weasal. She didn’t need a trial to tell her he was guilty.
Apparently, the Admiral did.
She should have let Bill throw the frakker out the airlock when he’d offered. But she’d wanted the trial. Had needed to make Gaius Baltar suffer, make him see exactly what he’d been responsible for. She needed this. They all did, to finally cleanse their souls of the heavy weight they had been carrying since New Caprica. To excise the undercurrents simmering beneath the veil of forgiveness and reconciliation.
She’d miscalculated. And now Bill thought they could all just move on and have a fresh start. He’d told her that they needed to look to the future.
She had.
She could see her future so very clearly. It was a stark series of months, filled with nauseating treatments and diminishing strength. A future of watching her body decay and shrivel until she was finally too weak to carry on. Until her flesh surrendered and the cancer spread to her brain.
She could see his future too. He was already cracking, deep chinks in his armor that would multiply until he crumbled under the weight. She could see the pain in his eyes when they lingered on her. Could see the heaviness in his heart when he looked at Lee. Could see his expression soften when he looked at that thing locked in the brig that was claiming to be Kara. He wanted to believe the girl instead of accepting the obvious truth that Kara Thrace was a cylon.
Bill had a future on Earth. She had cancer. And if the prophecies were right, she’d never even see the place.
She needed him to toughen up if they were going to get there.
###
She’d planned the conversation long before he’d walked through the hatch. It was all she’d thought about during her treatments. She’d distracted herself with words and phrases while ignoring the IV. Had plotted her plan of attack while curled on the cold floor of the bathroom, trying to calm her stomach as it churned with a cocktail of drugs and nerves.
Laura chose her words carefully. Sparse, direct phrases aimed to cut deep. To wound mercilessly. To strip away Bill’s denial and delusions and make him see the stark truths confronting them.
She hadn’t expected him to come home drunk. But, it made things easier.
Laura had wanted to hurt him. Had wanted to make Bill hurt her. To goad him, taunt him until he cut into her with cruel, unrestrained truths. Until he lashed out and wounded her with the ugly side of his personality.
She wanted to want him less.
Laura flinched as the door to the head slammed behind him.
It hadn’t helped.
One hand clutched at her stomach, the other at her mouth as she struggled to muffle her sobs. To swallow them and push aside the emotion. Her eyes squeezed shut, blotting out the clump of lifeless hair staring at her from the table. She refused to touch the rest of the strands, afraid to find the other loose locks scattered across her skull threatening to slip free from the root at any moment.
First the nausea. Now her hair. Things would progress more quickly now. She was tired all the time. She already had been, long before the cancer had returned. Now it would magnify, fatigue overtaking her moods, her work, her ability to think. The weakness would follow. Dizziness. Headaches. Bones aching as they grew brittle. Muscles and nerves dulling, atrophying, refusing to remain under her control. The side effects of her medications conspiring against her. Forcing her to waste away within her own skin.
She saw her mother lying frail and helpless in a hospital bed every time she closed her eyes. Surrounded by scores of machines pumping her full of drugs that sapped her vitality.
The cure was just as bad as the disease. And the damn cure didn’t cure anything.
She had seen too much senseless death. The death of her family and the death of her civilization. Elosha, Billy, Maya, and so many others. Death had led her here. So much death.
Maybe hers could make it all worth it.
Laura closed her eyes and focused on breathing. On stopping her tears. On the sharp, echoing sounds of Bill storming around in the bathroom. The hissing of running water in the sink. A harsh gasp and muffled curses, followed by the clang of metal against metal. He was shaving, unsteady hand nicking his skin as he worked. Familiar noises marred by the heavy rattle of the glass against the cluttered vanity. She wondered how long it would be before he gave up on the glass and started drinking straight out of the bottle.
He was right. She was afraid to die alone. And it made living with him even harder.
Wiping away her tears with the heel of her palms, Laura steadied herself, deep cleansing breaths centering her emotions. Opening her eyes, she studied the lifeless hunk of hair, silently taking its measure. Ripping a sheet of paper from her reports, she meticulously folded it around the dull strands. Sealed them tight and hid the crumpled sheet deep inside her briefcase. She’d dispose of it later. Bill didn’t need to know. She couldn’t handle the look in his eyes if he knew.
The bathroom door banged open with twice the force needed. Bill leaned heavily on the doorframe, searching for his balance before staggering out of the head. She watched him lurch defiantly towards his stash of liquor, swearing sharply as he stumbled over his own feet, coordination long gone. He refused to look at her as he filled up his glass and shuffled towards the rack, bottle still in hand.
Sitting hard on the mattress, Bill attacked his boots, dropping each shoe to the deck with a heavy crash, making far too much noise just to piss her off before turning his full attention back to his emptying glass.
Laura did her damndest to ignore him, leaning intently over her work and hiding her expression with a well-placed hand.
They both stayed that way for a long time. Waiting for his vision to clear. Waiting for it to all go away. Waiting for a sign. Waiting for something.
She was tired of this shit.
She was tired.
She pushed back from the table, letting the heavy legs of the chair scrape loudly against the floor, hoping the grating noise only enhanced the throbbing that had to be blossoming in Bill’s skull. Methodically, she packed up her workspace, readying her bag for the long list of meetings scheduled in the morning. When she ran out of things to straighten, Laura folded her arms across her stomach and strode towards the bed to retrieve her pajamas.
Bill was slouched across the mattress. Empty glass clenched in his white-knuckled grip. Morose look drowning his features. He didn’t bother sitting up. Instead, he focused intently on his hands, ignoring her as she snagged her clothes from under the pillow and chose her words carefully.
“Get off my bed.”
His eyes flashed when he looked at hers, swirling emotions flicking through them before his jaw clenched and he glared back at her.
“It’s my frakking bed.”
She made it halfway to the bathroom before turning back to the body slumped across the comforter.
“You’re a mean, pathetic drunk.”
Bill’s jaw tightened, glare dark and angry and shamed as he spat out his answer.
“And you’re a real bitch sometimes.”
Laura ignored the renewed sting pricking the corners of her eyes as she slammed the door to the bathroom. She’d asked for it.
He was still on the bed when she came out, freshly washed and changed. Bill perched on the edge of the rack, elbows on his knees, shoulders hunched as he hung his head and stared at the floor.
Laura ignored his sallow skin and shaking hands, walking towards her half of the closet and carefully hanging her suit pieces. She slammed the closet door with a loud smack before bending over and rummaging through the storage compartment. She heard Bill shift against the mattress. Caught the slight movements out of the corner of her eye as he lifted his head and watched her with a deep, pained expression.
“What are you doing?”
She pulled the spare blanket and pillow from their hiding place, ignoring their musty, threadbare state. She refused to use his bedding for this.
“What do you think I’m doing?”
His mouth moved silently for words that wouldn’t come, stockinged foot knocking over the empty glass on the floor. His shoulders slumped, sulky self-loathing etching its way across his face. She ignored him, dumping her armful on the couch before walking back to shut off the lights.
“Your back’s gonna regret it.”
His voice stopped her in her tracks. She turned back to him, her hand hovering over the light switch as their eyes locked across the room.
“Frak off, Bill.”
Stubbornly ignoring his warnings, Laura flicked off the lights in the main part of the cabin and curled under the scratchy blanket on the couch. She didn’t want to sleep in his bed tonight. Surrounded by the scent of him that wouldn’t leave. That would pervade her senses and make her want to forgive him.
Laura clung to her anger, savoring the vivid burn of emotion as it worked through her chest. She needed to feel something else for a change.
She woke to the hollow, wrenching sound of Bill vomiting his guts out.
Laura blinked her eyes open and stared at the ceiling through the murky darkness. It was the middle of the night. She hadn’t slept well. Her body ached, back throbbing from the unfamiliar give of the couch. Her limbs felt cramped and stiff from trying to stay put on the slippery leather.
Bill had told her so. She hated him a little more for being right.
The tinny noises of his retching were roiling her stomach, reminding her of her own, extended visit to the head earlier in the evening. She swallowed the faint traces of bile burning the back of her throat and focused on him.
The high, hollow sound echoed through her head, far too loud in the small rooms. Far louder than she’d ever guessed, even with door closed and the sink wasting water. Laura couldn’t help but wonder if she was that loud. If the sick sounds of vomit and frustration kept him company when she locked herself inside the bathroom after her treatments and tried to be quiet. She wondered if Bill could still hear her long after she’d emptied her stomach into the bowl. If her quiet sobs were nearly as audible.
She could leave him alone to suffer. She should. He needed to get used to the idea. He needed to begin to comprehend the reality of her absence. She needed to distance them before he entwined them too fully.
Besides, he deserved it.
Instead she thought about the nights he’d already spent crouched silently by her side as she hunched over the bowl. Soft hands soothing her hair away from her face. Strong fingers kneading into the muscles of her neck and back, coaxing the tremors from her body. Aging knees popping as he lifted her from the floor and helped her to his bed. About the countless nights he’d spend in the exact same way.
Laura pushed aside the blankets and padded silently towards the bathroom. She opened the door softly and leaned against the frame, squinting to see him in the light spilling in from the lamp on his desk. Bill was propped crookedly against the wall, eyes closed, head dropped back, labored breathing echoing through the small room.
She reached out a hand and flicked on the light over the mirror. He groaned in response, weakly turning his head to shield his eyes from the pounding brightness.
Laura considered him for a long moment, studying his sweat-soaked tanks and pained expression. Turning towards the sink, she wet a clean washcloth under the tap, and filled a glass with the lukewarm water, before turning off the faucet and kneeling by his side.
"You look like shit."
“Yeah.” Bill’s husky voice croaked his agreement.
She ran the cloth across his face, fighting her own shaky stomach as she cleaned the tacky sweat and sour smell from his skin. Bill sighed, head moving unconsciously into the swipes of the fabric, jaw tilting to let her wash his neck and shoulders. Cautiously testing the brightness of the room, Bill cracked his eyelids, gradually opening them and watching her as his vision adjusted to the light.
“I wake you?”
“No,” she lied, practiced voice betraying nothing, steady hand holding out the glass. “I don’t sleep well anymore.”
“Frak,” Bill winced again, from the light or her words, she couldn’t tell. Leaning forward, Bill braced his elbows against his knees, dropping his head against his forearms and grunting.
“Go back to bed, Laura,” he croaked softly, voice managing none of its normal gravitas.
“You done?”
Bill didn't answer. Instead, he eyed her queasily before leaning over the toilet again and vomiting the rest of the acid lining his stomach.
Laura shifted to sit against the chilly floor, leaning against the cabinet to watch him. Bill rested his forehead against the toilet for a long time, sighing as the cool metal soothed his clammy skin. She ignored the tile digging into her skin - easy as her knees had already grown accustomed to the dull pain. Her fingers snuck underneath his stained tanks, sketching soothing patterns across the strong muscles of his back as he managed to lift his head long enough to sip the glass of water. She resisted the urge to fold his body into her arms. To kiss his temple and nuzzle his hair as he relaxed into her touch.
She could feel his breathing grow heavy under her hand. Shaking her head at his obstinacy, Laura shook his shoulder, yanking a grunt out of Bill as she forced him back into a semblance of consciousness.
“Wake the frak up, Bill. Or you’re sleeping on the floor.”
Glaring at her with half-lidded eyes, Bill stubbornly pushed himself off from the deck, clutching at the counter and muttering curses when he stood too quickly and blood rushed from his head. Laura steadied him, catching him around the waist and praying he wouldn’t fall. He was far too bulky for her to hold up and if he toppled over, he’d take her with him.
He was heavy, but she managed, leading him in slow, unsteady steps to drop onto his bed. He shook his head, grunting in disapproval as she pulled back the covers and pushed him to lie flat across the mattress.
“You get the rack, Laura,” he slurred, struggling to regain enough coordination to push his bulk back up and stumble to the couch.
“Shut up and lie down, Bill.”
Bill fumbled for a few moments before giving up, collapsing against the bed with muttered curses and intense self-loathing.
“I’m pathetic.”
“You’re still drunk.”
“You’re still pissed.”
“No I’m not,” she confessed softly. “Go to sleep, Bill.”
“M‘kay.” he answered groggily, breathing already starting to slow. “Laura?”
“Bill?”
“Come to bed,” he mumbled sleepily, fingers groping blindly to wind with hers and tug her towards him. He shifted towards the far end of the mattress, tucking his body against the wall, clearing her side of the bed next to him as he drifted into sleep.
Laura sat on the edge of the rack for long moments. His breathing evened, steady cadence marred only by the grumpy huffs he made when intoxicated. The empty space between them stared back at her. A narrow sliver of mattress that seemed so vast, filled only by their entwined hands.
Untangling their fingers, she drew the blanket up to cover his body, gingerly tucking him in before brushing the hair away from his clammy forehead. He shifted against the mattress, hand inching across the blankets searching for her as he slept. She watched his brow furrow at the loss of contact, then soothe when the tips of his fingers found her thigh.
It would be so easy to crawl in beside him, fights and anger and cancer forgotten. To feel his arms wrap around her. His chest firm against her back. His hand warm and soft against her stomach. His breath hot against her neck as his face buried deep into her thick hair…
Throat dry, she stood and walked back into the bathroom. Quietly, she cleaned up the rest of Bill’s mess and washed the streaked tears from her face. Unsteady fingers ran through her hair, collecting all the loose strands they could find and flushing them down the toilet. Laura looked at her reflection for a long time before wrapping her robe tighter around her and going back to sleep on the couch.
They never talked about it. Never even acknowledged it. Except for that brief moment the next morning when he brought her coffee and looked deep into her eyes.
She told Tory to find her some damned guest quarters by the end of the day.
She still didn’t leave.