and the dish ran away with the spoon
Title: and the dish ran away with the spoon.
Date posted: 04-17-09
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Spoilers: Not to the finale, but most of season four? I guess? It's not very specific.
Notes: I loved you first, I loved you first
Beneath the stars came falling on our heads
- Samson, Regina Spektor
Bill reads because she likes to listen; he reads because he's afraid of what his gaze says. The book in his lap is a suitable distraction: he can read and still see her in his periphery, a blurry, fuzzy Laura that makes pleased sounds in the back of her throat when she appreciates a description or a witty bon mot, and not stare at her carefully so that he can remember her when she's gone. Staring makes it real- she will die, he will lose her, and there won't be much else left but her memory- but the impulse is startling in its intensity.
If there are rumors about his presence at her bedside they're kept from him. He holds her hand and reads and she sometimes makes comments but usually just falls asleep to his voice. She wakes just enough to murmur things to him- "I wish I had my books," or "I think you should wear your red tie when you meet my sisters," or "We were surgeons on Picon."
"Oh, were we?" He asks there, softly, as she lingers in the milky twilight between dreams and reality. She is delicate, and he is mindful.
"Mm. You worked with hearts."
"What did you do?" His voice is warm with fondness and she turns towards it like a helianthus.
Stretching, she exhales, "Brains. We were both Dr. Crecio." She says this dreamily and without concern, as if it isn't unusual, their roles as Pican surgeons.
"I see," he says, because it's just the medication that makes her dream like this. The first fantastic dream she'd had in years- one that involved a future earth populated with hundreds of millions, who greeted the fleet warmly until a note was passed to her saying there were twelve more Cylon models, all hidden in the millions like a game in a child's riddle book- she had woke up in a cold sweat and told him that her dreams before had always been incredibly boring. "I dreamt of my life before," she'd said then. "Sometimes I was adventurous and left for work a whole five minutes later than I would normally. Sometimes I got a different brand of toothpaste. Nothing exciting." She had said this with his chin resting on her head, the tips of his fingers skimming her back, fairly glowing with health in comparison to now.
She's still not fully awake now, though she's opened her eyes once or twice to look at him with an adoration that makes his heart constrict, and she murmurs, "I was thinking how sad it was to leave you, but you've always left me first before." It's almost wistful, but tempered with practicality, as though stating a long-held truth that was not necessarily embraced.
"How do you mean?" He'd like to end this with an endearment, to soften the phrase, but it's not their way.
"Hm? Oh," She idly caresses the hand she's holding, "It's my turn to go first."
"I died when we were doctors?" He has a trace of amusement in his voice, but he's marked their page and closed their book.
She opens her eyes to study him a moment before saying, "Yes, you crossed the street without looking," and it's vaguely accusing, as if she would rebuke him if she thought it would do any good. Her eyes slide shut again and she squeezes his hand. "So now you'll know not to be so careless."
He wants to say there are no more streets to cross, as he has wanted in the past to mention that he has no red tie and she has no sisters for him to meet, but it's kinder to go along. "I'm sorry. I'll try not to be."
She nuzzles into her pillow. "You're more reckless than I am, every time." This is a resigned statement: the fact of the matter is that he is reckless, and she must accept it. Her voice is fading, and soon she'll be asleep again.
"How many times?" He asks without thinking. Opening his mouth he had expected to ask her if she wanted him to continue his reading. His free hand is fingering the pages of the book.
"Eleven," she mumbles, "this time is twelve."
He feels an irrational desire to wake her up, to hear more. He doesn't believe in the cyclical nature of the scriptures or reincarnation, and he knows that Laura is sick and dreaming and the cancer is spreading. He wants to know if it's true, if there is more than one chance, if time and again he will meet Laura, her soul gleaming regardless of her body, a beacon to his own. He wants to ask how it is possible that he'll know, even though he has allegedly known before. He is not a man of faith, and it seems to be too much to believe.
(And maybe, he thinks, Laura is more clever than previously realized, and she is telling him this to make her inevitable death easier. You might miss someone with a keen heartbreak that makes you want life to stop- which he is sure will happen to him- but it's softened by the idea that your separation will always end with a reunion, like a ship sailing into port. All this has happened before, and it will happen again.)
He resumes his reading.
Date posted: 04-17-09
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Spoilers: Not to the finale, but most of season four? I guess? It's not very specific.
Notes: I loved you first, I loved you first
Beneath the stars came falling on our heads
- Samson, Regina Spektor
Bill reads because she likes to listen; he reads because he's afraid of what his gaze says. The book in his lap is a suitable distraction: he can read and still see her in his periphery, a blurry, fuzzy Laura that makes pleased sounds in the back of her throat when she appreciates a description or a witty bon mot, and not stare at her carefully so that he can remember her when she's gone. Staring makes it real- she will die, he will lose her, and there won't be much else left but her memory- but the impulse is startling in its intensity.
If there are rumors about his presence at her bedside they're kept from him. He holds her hand and reads and she sometimes makes comments but usually just falls asleep to his voice. She wakes just enough to murmur things to him- "I wish I had my books," or "I think you should wear your red tie when you meet my sisters," or "We were surgeons on Picon."
"Oh, were we?" He asks there, softly, as she lingers in the milky twilight between dreams and reality. She is delicate, and he is mindful.
"Mm. You worked with hearts."
"What did you do?" His voice is warm with fondness and she turns towards it like a helianthus.
Stretching, she exhales, "Brains. We were both Dr. Crecio." She says this dreamily and without concern, as if it isn't unusual, their roles as Pican surgeons.
"I see," he says, because it's just the medication that makes her dream like this. The first fantastic dream she'd had in years- one that involved a future earth populated with hundreds of millions, who greeted the fleet warmly until a note was passed to her saying there were twelve more Cylon models, all hidden in the millions like a game in a child's riddle book- she had woke up in a cold sweat and told him that her dreams before had always been incredibly boring. "I dreamt of my life before," she'd said then. "Sometimes I was adventurous and left for work a whole five minutes later than I would normally. Sometimes I got a different brand of toothpaste. Nothing exciting." She had said this with his chin resting on her head, the tips of his fingers skimming her back, fairly glowing with health in comparison to now.
She's still not fully awake now, though she's opened her eyes once or twice to look at him with an adoration that makes his heart constrict, and she murmurs, "I was thinking how sad it was to leave you, but you've always left me first before." It's almost wistful, but tempered with practicality, as though stating a long-held truth that was not necessarily embraced.
"How do you mean?" He'd like to end this with an endearment, to soften the phrase, but it's not their way.
"Hm? Oh," She idly caresses the hand she's holding, "It's my turn to go first."
"I died when we were doctors?" He has a trace of amusement in his voice, but he's marked their page and closed their book.
She opens her eyes to study him a moment before saying, "Yes, you crossed the street without looking," and it's vaguely accusing, as if she would rebuke him if she thought it would do any good. Her eyes slide shut again and she squeezes his hand. "So now you'll know not to be so careless."
He wants to say there are no more streets to cross, as he has wanted in the past to mention that he has no red tie and she has no sisters for him to meet, but it's kinder to go along. "I'm sorry. I'll try not to be."
She nuzzles into her pillow. "You're more reckless than I am, every time." This is a resigned statement: the fact of the matter is that he is reckless, and she must accept it. Her voice is fading, and soon she'll be asleep again.
"How many times?" He asks without thinking. Opening his mouth he had expected to ask her if she wanted him to continue his reading. His free hand is fingering the pages of the book.
"Eleven," she mumbles, "this time is twelve."
He feels an irrational desire to wake her up, to hear more. He doesn't believe in the cyclical nature of the scriptures or reincarnation, and he knows that Laura is sick and dreaming and the cancer is spreading. He wants to know if it's true, if there is more than one chance, if time and again he will meet Laura, her soul gleaming regardless of her body, a beacon to his own. He wants to ask how it is possible that he'll know, even though he has allegedly known before. He is not a man of faith, and it seems to be too much to believe.
(And maybe, he thinks, Laura is more clever than previously realized, and she is telling him this to make her inevitable death easier. You might miss someone with a keen heartbreak that makes you want life to stop- which he is sure will happen to him- but it's softened by the idea that your separation will always end with a reunion, like a ship sailing into port. All this has happened before, and it will happen again.)
He resumes his reading.