Better Left Unsaid (2/12)
Title: Better Left Unsaid (Part 2/12)
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: So apparently I can't count. There are actually 10 sections, not 9. My bad! 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
The dreams started with the chamalla. They were too vivid, almost unreal in their authenticity. Amplifying her senses far beyond their normal measure.
The visions came first. Disjointed images in the beginning, slowly coalescing into a narrative that she couldn’t understand. Running through an opera house. Following Hera through a maze of corridors, primal need to protect the girl thrumming through her blood.
She always woke with a sharp gasp. Sweaty and wide-eyed and sucking in shallow breaths as she tried and failed to piece together the discordant puzzle pieces.
Then, the nightmares started again. Stark and hellish, images and sounds that she couldn’t excise from her brain. Grisly memories that twisted into a macabre horror. Memories of New Caprica. Of the cylons. Of detention. Of endless days and nights in the unblinking light of her cell. Of screams and heavy clanking leaking through the sturdy walls. Of the abject terror in the pit of her stomach every time the cell door wrenched open. The things that had happened that she preferred not to remember in her waking moments. The things they didn’t talk about. The things she refused to tell Bill. His imagination was bad enough.
She always woke up screaming to find Bill by her side. Groggy and confused and more than a little scared as he tried to wake her. As he brushed the matted hair back from her forehead and asked if she was ok. As he soothed her back to sleep with low words and tender touches.
Then there were the other dreams.
The ones enhanced by memory, entwining experience and fantasy. Gripping her in ways the visions never could.
Waking up in her bed on Caprica. Sunlight kissing her face. Bill kissing her neck. Luxuriating in soft, cozy sheets as she snuggled into his sleep-warmed chest. Writhing lazily as his hands explored her skin. Splaying his body across the wide mattress as she frakked him good morning.
Stripping naked with him behind their cabin on New Caprica. Laughing as Bill swept her into his arms and tossed her shrieking into the cooling lake. Spluttering as she surfaced to find him grinning boyishly on the bank. Splashing long arcs of water towards him until he dove in after her. Letting him catch her in the shallow water. His arms pulling her tight and warming her. His hands pushing wet hair off her face as he leaned in and kissed her breath away.
Lying on the warm grass on Earth. Her head on Bill’s chest. His hand stroking her hair. Watching the stars glimmer in the night sky. Tracing the constellations that had led them home. Sketching the familiar patterns into Bill’s chest until his fingers threaded through her hair. Until his legs tangled with hers. Until he found her mouth and they stopped seeing anything but each other.
Coming home to his quarters at night. Coming home to him. His arm sliding around her waist as she put down her bag. Nose nudging aside her hair as he kissed her cheek, her neck, the curve of her jaw, the shell of her ear. Welcoming her home with mouth and body and words breathed into her skin.
After those dreams, she could never fall back asleep.
###
She hadn’t planned on staying with him every night.
They had to be practical. People would talk, dreaming up scenarios that weren’t as farfetched as she liked to pretend. Their arrangement was already built around flimsy pretexts and modified half-truths. It was an unnecessary risk.
She had every intention of actually finding some guest quarters and using them. Of periodically staying on Colonial One in the interim, adding some measure of normalcy back to her life. They’d never lived together for more than a few days at a time. The close quarters were too intense, relentless, subtle intimacies around every corner.
She needed an escape. She needed her privacy. She missed those quiet moments in between where she could just be alone.
She concocted so many excuses - ready-made and perfectly defensible. Perfectly plausible things that Bill would accept without question. Early meetings on Colonial One. Late night Quorum sessions that dragged on interminably. Stacks of work that required staffing. She could fabricate an endless list of reasons to sleep elsewhere for a night.
But she never used them. She inevitably found herself stepping over the threshold of his quarters day after day. For nearly a week, until Lee Adama self-righteously betrayed her secrets to a packed courtroom.
Her ship was swarming with reporters, poised and waiting to pounce the moment they caught a glimpse of her. The last thing she wanted to see was another reporter. She didn’t want to see anyone. So she closed herself up in her office and dove into her work.
She was amazingly productive. Her room on Colonial One was stark and businesslike, free of distractions and filled with practicality. Alone at her desk, the dull hum of the sleeping ship kept her company while she plowed through stacks of reports. She stayed up late, later than she should, avoiding the empty room behind the curtain, now bare of even the few personal mementos she still possessed.
When she finally went to bed, Laura tossed and turned through a few short hours of sleep, eventually waking alone in a too-cold cot. She lay between the sheets, mind wandering for hours while waiting for her alarm to finally shriek. Colonial One was private, but not peaceful. She missed the warmth of Bill’s blankets, the rich spice of Bill’s scent drifting up from the mattress, the lazy, familiar rustling as Bill stirred on the couch, stubbornly clinging to the last remnants of slumber.
She wondered if he had gotten any rest. If he missed their late night conversations or the awkward dance in the bathroom as they got ready for bed. If he had slept in since he didn’t have to shower before her.
Laura wondered if he’d slept in the rack while she was gone.
There were too many thoughts jostling through her brain. The trial, the Press, rations, fuel, the Quorum’s petty disputes, Earth. And the looming specter of her first treatment at 1700 hours.
Instead, as the clock ticked closer to morning, she thought about seducing Bill. It would be so easy, especially now. He wanted her. He had never stopped, but now he told her constantly. With every brush of his fingers against her arm. Every look that lingered for just a few beats too long. Every time he disappeared into the head for a too-long evening shower.
She could practically taste him. His warm, talented mouth would be tender and tentative at first. Soft, thin lips would brush against hers, rediscovering their texture. One wide palm would wrap around her waist, teasing her shirt up until he found the sensitive skin at the small of her back. The other would cradle her cheek, fingers tracing intricate patterns along her hairline as he kissed her.
He would take things slow, pulling back after each lingering pass to gaze into her eyes and gauge her response. She'd answer with that sly grin he could never resist. And he'd surrender, hands hot and insistent and tender as he relearned her body.
He’d hold her tight afterward. Sated and languid and chuckling as he kissed her temple and buried his face in her hair, lulling her to sleep with teasing conversation and a warm palm stroking her back.
She could be herself with Bill. And she wanted that.
Flipping off her alarm when it finally shrieked, Laura reached for the phone and called him.
Silently scolding herself, she wondered if he was even awake as she waited impatiently for her staff to patch her through to his private line. She should be able to make it through a night without speaking to him. Should be able to start her day without his presence. But, she missed him. She wanted to hear his gravelly voice, still thick with sleep, and tease him with subtext-laced phrases as they both steeled themselves for the hours ahead.
She couldn’t keep the giggle out of her words when he answered, tone as gruff and open as she’d imagined in her daydream. She could hear the hum of the bathroom light as she ordered him to yell at her. Could hear the amusement in his tone as he responded. Could hear the naked affection infusing his speech. Could hear the worry, the stress, the fear for the cancer patient weighing down his soul.
Laura didn’t want to get out of bed. She didn’t want to face any of them. The Press, the people, Baltar, Tory, Romo, Lee, and every other face she could think of. And most of all, Cottle - who would be waiting impatiently for her tonight, cigarette hanging from his lips, armed with an IV of chemicals to slide into her veins.
She wanted to forget and allow herself to be carefree and giddy. To shed the responsibilities and fears weighing heavily on her heart and just enjoy herself. Enjoy Bill. And somehow, it was easier to surrender to her needs with the distance of a distorted wireless line and miles of black space between them.
She smiled softly when Bill ended the call, finally shoving aside the blankets and lowering her bare feet to the decks. Heady warmth tickled her soul as she dressed for the day, wrapping her bones in ice-cold professionalism. As she prepared to face a fleet of people that only cared about the Office of the President, not the ailing woman who held the title.
Everyone always wanted something from her. Bill only wanted her. In some ways, that was the most intimidating part of it all.
###
That morning, she hadn’t wanted to get out of bed. Right now, Laura didn’t think she physically could.
She lay sprawled across Bill’s rack, still in her clothes, clammy sweat gluing the worn fabric to her body. Her arms clutched weakly at her still churning stomach. She’d barely made it back to Bill’s before the vomiting began. Her throat burned, acid and bile still coating the back of her windpipe. She’d retched for what seemed like hours, icy tile of the bathroom pressing into her knees, hard steel of the toilet mashed against her tear-streaked cheek.
Gods, she hated throwing up. It made her feel like a five year old with the flu, aching to crawl into her mother’s lap and wish it all away. It should be a comforting fantasy. But it only conjured images of her mother’s bouts with doloxan.
She jerked involuntarily when the hatch ground open, moaning as the sudden movement roiled her stomach again. Laura shut her eyes tightly and listened as Bill carefully closed the door and moved through the room, sounds of his evening routine pleasantly soothing and familiar.
He removed his boots and jacket before he came over to her, treading softly in the low light of the back of the cabin. He perched gingerly on the mattress, taking special care not to jostle her as the bed adjusted to his weight. Gentle fingers brushed the sweaty hair away from her cheek, threading in the damp strands and massaging the base of her skull.
“How’re you feeling?” he murmured, voice nearly a whisper.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine, Laura.”
The wry laugh caught in the back of her throat, twisting into a whimpering cough that wracked her body. Laura closed her eyes, focusing her energy on keeping whatever was left in her stomach. Quickly, Bill got up and filled a glass of water. He slid his hand under the base of her neck, carefully angling her to safely sip. The cool liquid doused her coughs and soothed her throat, diluting the disgusting taste lingering on her palate.
She drank as much as she thought her stomach could handle before dropping back to the pillow and covering her eyes with her wrist, the silver of her bracelet cooling her clammy skin.
“I will be fine. Eventually.”
“I know.”
His rumble held so much raw belief, Laura could almost convince herself it was the truth.
“I never want to get up again,” she burrowed further into the pillow and changed the subject. “I just want to stay in bed all day.”
They’d done that once or twice, back on New Caprica. They’d lounge against the mattress for hours, coated in sweat and gasping for breath. Sleepily fight for room in his narrow rack or her lumpy cot. Curl up together as they rested, sharing stories, both remembered and read. Doze for hours between heated rounds of sex and quiet conversation, uncaring of what the rest of the world might be doing.
Right now she didn’t think she was ever going to want sex again.
“C’mon.”
She groaned as Bill coaxed her upright and began unfastening her shirt, murmuring husky encouragement under his breath. Steady hands stripped her of her suit pieces and bra and gingerly wrapped her shivering body in his plush robe before easing her back down against his sheets. Tucking another set of blankets around her, Bill stroked the stubborn hair from her face again and smiled sadly.
“Sleep, Laura.”
“M’kay.”
She could feel the weariness tugging at her eyelids but then she remembered.
“Wait, Bill. Before. I missed the bowl. I’ll clean it later.”
“I’ll get it.”
“But…”
“Laura, I’ll get it.”
His tone left no room for argument. And she didn’t have enough fight left in her.
They were right. She couldn’t do this alone.
###
She banned Bill from her treatments.
She insisted. She lied. Made up some medical excuse that she knew he wouldn’t question. That she didn’t care if he believed. She knew he wouldn’t listen if she told him she didn’t want him there.
She couldn’t even convince herself.
Bill was determined to protect her. He stormed through the hallways of his ship like a bulldog, daring anyone to challenge him on their poorly hidden arrangement. He orchestrated their schedules to match as closely as possible. He was always touching her, always checking up on her, always looking at her with that heavy, meaningful gaze, face inscrutable but feelings naked deep inside his eyes.
It was smothering. The worry whenever he caught the slight tremor in her hand or the way her shirt already hung too loose. The dangerous possessiveness as he watched her in public, solicitously checking up on her. The bone-deep contentment at having her so close, the quiet intimacy born from sharing the small space.
They’d wasted so much time. So much time and now he thought he could make up for his stupidity. Thought that living together would change everything. That he could cram everything they’d missed into the time they had left.
He was wrong. She didn’t have the time to spare.
And he wasn’t ready. She wasn’t sure if he ever would be.
Lee certainly wasn’t.
The boy had such potential. And he wasted it - too busy chasing an abstract moral high ground to focus on the things that needed to be done. She was sick and tired of his growing pains. She wanted to smack him. To hurt him. To shake him until he opened his eyes and actually started seeing reality for once.
Lee could make the hard decisions. Could do what needed to be done. He was the one who had destroyed the Olympic Carrier. He was the one who had helped her get back to Kobol. He was the one who had cut her down on the witness stand.
It remained to be seen if he could live with it. If he could carry the burden, the weight of humanity, the names and faces of every last person he’d hurt or sacrificed or destroyed. Lee was so frakking naive. He didn’t understand that sometimes righteousness caused nothing but pain. The boy needed to learn to pick the battles that actually needed to be frakking won.
Bill was furious at his son for revealing her secret. Laura tried not to think about it. Tried not to relive those horrible moments sitting on the stand as Lee lashed out to prove his point. She didn’t have time for the sick fury that coiled in her stomach whenever she thought about his foolhardy pursuit of justice. But it was done and the exposure itself had been a relief. Hiding her illness would have been impossible. The physical scars would be visible before long. And now each one would be another wedge between Bill and his son.
She didn’t have time for this shit. Not for Bill to get used to her cancer or for Lee to get his self-righteous head out of his ass. She needed them to get over it. Needed them both to hold things together without her.
Zarek couldn’t be trusted. The Quorum was a handful of squabbling children, all out for their own interests. Tory was a mess who didn’t have what it would take to lead. Billy did, but he’d never gotten the chance.
She was stuck with her Adamas.
Lee thought that saving Baltar meant he was proving something about humanity. He had no idea what price the survival of humanity demanded from the soul.
Bill was no better. He thought they could beat the cancer. That she would suffer through the treatments and be cured. That everything would be ok and they could move on.
She couldn’t handle it. Couldn’t watch him sit by her hospital bed. Watch him ignore her sickness. Her disease. Her death. She couldn’t watch his face - intent on the fluid pumping into her veins. On the treatment. On the poison. Couldn’t look into the deep blue eyes brimming with anguish at her pain. Swelling with hope and faith - adamant that the drugs would work. That she would recover. That she would live.
Dying leaders have to die.
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: So apparently I can't count. There are actually 10 sections, not 9. My bad! 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
The dreams started with the chamalla. They were too vivid, almost unreal in their authenticity. Amplifying her senses far beyond their normal measure.
The visions came first. Disjointed images in the beginning, slowly coalescing into a narrative that she couldn’t understand. Running through an opera house. Following Hera through a maze of corridors, primal need to protect the girl thrumming through her blood.
She always woke with a sharp gasp. Sweaty and wide-eyed and sucking in shallow breaths as she tried and failed to piece together the discordant puzzle pieces.
Then, the nightmares started again. Stark and hellish, images and sounds that she couldn’t excise from her brain. Grisly memories that twisted into a macabre horror. Memories of New Caprica. Of the cylons. Of detention. Of endless days and nights in the unblinking light of her cell. Of screams and heavy clanking leaking through the sturdy walls. Of the abject terror in the pit of her stomach every time the cell door wrenched open. The things that had happened that she preferred not to remember in her waking moments. The things they didn’t talk about. The things she refused to tell Bill. His imagination was bad enough.
She always woke up screaming to find Bill by her side. Groggy and confused and more than a little scared as he tried to wake her. As he brushed the matted hair back from her forehead and asked if she was ok. As he soothed her back to sleep with low words and tender touches.
Then there were the other dreams.
The ones enhanced by memory, entwining experience and fantasy. Gripping her in ways the visions never could.
Waking up in her bed on Caprica. Sunlight kissing her face. Bill kissing her neck. Luxuriating in soft, cozy sheets as she snuggled into his sleep-warmed chest. Writhing lazily as his hands explored her skin. Splaying his body across the wide mattress as she frakked him good morning.
Stripping naked with him behind their cabin on New Caprica. Laughing as Bill swept her into his arms and tossed her shrieking into the cooling lake. Spluttering as she surfaced to find him grinning boyishly on the bank. Splashing long arcs of water towards him until he dove in after her. Letting him catch her in the shallow water. His arms pulling her tight and warming her. His hands pushing wet hair off her face as he leaned in and kissed her breath away.
Lying on the warm grass on Earth. Her head on Bill’s chest. His hand stroking her hair. Watching the stars glimmer in the night sky. Tracing the constellations that had led them home. Sketching the familiar patterns into Bill’s chest until his fingers threaded through her hair. Until his legs tangled with hers. Until he found her mouth and they stopped seeing anything but each other.
Coming home to his quarters at night. Coming home to him. His arm sliding around her waist as she put down her bag. Nose nudging aside her hair as he kissed her cheek, her neck, the curve of her jaw, the shell of her ear. Welcoming her home with mouth and body and words breathed into her skin.
After those dreams, she could never fall back asleep.
###
She hadn’t planned on staying with him every night.
They had to be practical. People would talk, dreaming up scenarios that weren’t as farfetched as she liked to pretend. Their arrangement was already built around flimsy pretexts and modified half-truths. It was an unnecessary risk.
She had every intention of actually finding some guest quarters and using them. Of periodically staying on Colonial One in the interim, adding some measure of normalcy back to her life. They’d never lived together for more than a few days at a time. The close quarters were too intense, relentless, subtle intimacies around every corner.
She needed an escape. She needed her privacy. She missed those quiet moments in between where she could just be alone.
She concocted so many excuses - ready-made and perfectly defensible. Perfectly plausible things that Bill would accept without question. Early meetings on Colonial One. Late night Quorum sessions that dragged on interminably. Stacks of work that required staffing. She could fabricate an endless list of reasons to sleep elsewhere for a night.
But she never used them. She inevitably found herself stepping over the threshold of his quarters day after day. For nearly a week, until Lee Adama self-righteously betrayed her secrets to a packed courtroom.
Her ship was swarming with reporters, poised and waiting to pounce the moment they caught a glimpse of her. The last thing she wanted to see was another reporter. She didn’t want to see anyone. So she closed herself up in her office and dove into her work.
She was amazingly productive. Her room on Colonial One was stark and businesslike, free of distractions and filled with practicality. Alone at her desk, the dull hum of the sleeping ship kept her company while she plowed through stacks of reports. She stayed up late, later than she should, avoiding the empty room behind the curtain, now bare of even the few personal mementos she still possessed.
When she finally went to bed, Laura tossed and turned through a few short hours of sleep, eventually waking alone in a too-cold cot. She lay between the sheets, mind wandering for hours while waiting for her alarm to finally shriek. Colonial One was private, but not peaceful. She missed the warmth of Bill’s blankets, the rich spice of Bill’s scent drifting up from the mattress, the lazy, familiar rustling as Bill stirred on the couch, stubbornly clinging to the last remnants of slumber.
She wondered if he had gotten any rest. If he missed their late night conversations or the awkward dance in the bathroom as they got ready for bed. If he had slept in since he didn’t have to shower before her.
Laura wondered if he’d slept in the rack while she was gone.
There were too many thoughts jostling through her brain. The trial, the Press, rations, fuel, the Quorum’s petty disputes, Earth. And the looming specter of her first treatment at 1700 hours.
Instead, as the clock ticked closer to morning, she thought about seducing Bill. It would be so easy, especially now. He wanted her. He had never stopped, but now he told her constantly. With every brush of his fingers against her arm. Every look that lingered for just a few beats too long. Every time he disappeared into the head for a too-long evening shower.
She could practically taste him. His warm, talented mouth would be tender and tentative at first. Soft, thin lips would brush against hers, rediscovering their texture. One wide palm would wrap around her waist, teasing her shirt up until he found the sensitive skin at the small of her back. The other would cradle her cheek, fingers tracing intricate patterns along her hairline as he kissed her.
He would take things slow, pulling back after each lingering pass to gaze into her eyes and gauge her response. She'd answer with that sly grin he could never resist. And he'd surrender, hands hot and insistent and tender as he relearned her body.
He’d hold her tight afterward. Sated and languid and chuckling as he kissed her temple and buried his face in her hair, lulling her to sleep with teasing conversation and a warm palm stroking her back.
She could be herself with Bill. And she wanted that.
Flipping off her alarm when it finally shrieked, Laura reached for the phone and called him.
Silently scolding herself, she wondered if he was even awake as she waited impatiently for her staff to patch her through to his private line. She should be able to make it through a night without speaking to him. Should be able to start her day without his presence. But, she missed him. She wanted to hear his gravelly voice, still thick with sleep, and tease him with subtext-laced phrases as they both steeled themselves for the hours ahead.
She couldn’t keep the giggle out of her words when he answered, tone as gruff and open as she’d imagined in her daydream. She could hear the hum of the bathroom light as she ordered him to yell at her. Could hear the amusement in his tone as he responded. Could hear the naked affection infusing his speech. Could hear the worry, the stress, the fear for the cancer patient weighing down his soul.
Laura didn’t want to get out of bed. She didn’t want to face any of them. The Press, the people, Baltar, Tory, Romo, Lee, and every other face she could think of. And most of all, Cottle - who would be waiting impatiently for her tonight, cigarette hanging from his lips, armed with an IV of chemicals to slide into her veins.
She wanted to forget and allow herself to be carefree and giddy. To shed the responsibilities and fears weighing heavily on her heart and just enjoy herself. Enjoy Bill. And somehow, it was easier to surrender to her needs with the distance of a distorted wireless line and miles of black space between them.
She smiled softly when Bill ended the call, finally shoving aside the blankets and lowering her bare feet to the decks. Heady warmth tickled her soul as she dressed for the day, wrapping her bones in ice-cold professionalism. As she prepared to face a fleet of people that only cared about the Office of the President, not the ailing woman who held the title.
Everyone always wanted something from her. Bill only wanted her. In some ways, that was the most intimidating part of it all.
###
That morning, she hadn’t wanted to get out of bed. Right now, Laura didn’t think she physically could.
She lay sprawled across Bill’s rack, still in her clothes, clammy sweat gluing the worn fabric to her body. Her arms clutched weakly at her still churning stomach. She’d barely made it back to Bill’s before the vomiting began. Her throat burned, acid and bile still coating the back of her windpipe. She’d retched for what seemed like hours, icy tile of the bathroom pressing into her knees, hard steel of the toilet mashed against her tear-streaked cheek.
Gods, she hated throwing up. It made her feel like a five year old with the flu, aching to crawl into her mother’s lap and wish it all away. It should be a comforting fantasy. But it only conjured images of her mother’s bouts with doloxan.
She jerked involuntarily when the hatch ground open, moaning as the sudden movement roiled her stomach again. Laura shut her eyes tightly and listened as Bill carefully closed the door and moved through the room, sounds of his evening routine pleasantly soothing and familiar.
He removed his boots and jacket before he came over to her, treading softly in the low light of the back of the cabin. He perched gingerly on the mattress, taking special care not to jostle her as the bed adjusted to his weight. Gentle fingers brushed the sweaty hair away from her cheek, threading in the damp strands and massaging the base of her skull.
“How’re you feeling?” he murmured, voice nearly a whisper.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine, Laura.”
The wry laugh caught in the back of her throat, twisting into a whimpering cough that wracked her body. Laura closed her eyes, focusing her energy on keeping whatever was left in her stomach. Quickly, Bill got up and filled a glass of water. He slid his hand under the base of her neck, carefully angling her to safely sip. The cool liquid doused her coughs and soothed her throat, diluting the disgusting taste lingering on her palate.
She drank as much as she thought her stomach could handle before dropping back to the pillow and covering her eyes with her wrist, the silver of her bracelet cooling her clammy skin.
“I will be fine. Eventually.”
“I know.”
His rumble held so much raw belief, Laura could almost convince herself it was the truth.
“I never want to get up again,” she burrowed further into the pillow and changed the subject. “I just want to stay in bed all day.”
They’d done that once or twice, back on New Caprica. They’d lounge against the mattress for hours, coated in sweat and gasping for breath. Sleepily fight for room in his narrow rack or her lumpy cot. Curl up together as they rested, sharing stories, both remembered and read. Doze for hours between heated rounds of sex and quiet conversation, uncaring of what the rest of the world might be doing.
Right now she didn’t think she was ever going to want sex again.
“C’mon.”
She groaned as Bill coaxed her upright and began unfastening her shirt, murmuring husky encouragement under his breath. Steady hands stripped her of her suit pieces and bra and gingerly wrapped her shivering body in his plush robe before easing her back down against his sheets. Tucking another set of blankets around her, Bill stroked the stubborn hair from her face again and smiled sadly.
“Sleep, Laura.”
“M’kay.”
She could feel the weariness tugging at her eyelids but then she remembered.
“Wait, Bill. Before. I missed the bowl. I’ll clean it later.”
“I’ll get it.”
“But…”
“Laura, I’ll get it.”
His tone left no room for argument. And she didn’t have enough fight left in her.
They were right. She couldn’t do this alone.
###
She banned Bill from her treatments.
She insisted. She lied. Made up some medical excuse that she knew he wouldn’t question. That she didn’t care if he believed. She knew he wouldn’t listen if she told him she didn’t want him there.
She couldn’t even convince herself.
Bill was determined to protect her. He stormed through the hallways of his ship like a bulldog, daring anyone to challenge him on their poorly hidden arrangement. He orchestrated their schedules to match as closely as possible. He was always touching her, always checking up on her, always looking at her with that heavy, meaningful gaze, face inscrutable but feelings naked deep inside his eyes.
It was smothering. The worry whenever he caught the slight tremor in her hand or the way her shirt already hung too loose. The dangerous possessiveness as he watched her in public, solicitously checking up on her. The bone-deep contentment at having her so close, the quiet intimacy born from sharing the small space.
They’d wasted so much time. So much time and now he thought he could make up for his stupidity. Thought that living together would change everything. That he could cram everything they’d missed into the time they had left.
He was wrong. She didn’t have the time to spare.
And he wasn’t ready. She wasn’t sure if he ever would be.
Lee certainly wasn’t.
The boy had such potential. And he wasted it - too busy chasing an abstract moral high ground to focus on the things that needed to be done. She was sick and tired of his growing pains. She wanted to smack him. To hurt him. To shake him until he opened his eyes and actually started seeing reality for once.
Lee could make the hard decisions. Could do what needed to be done. He was the one who had destroyed the Olympic Carrier. He was the one who had helped her get back to Kobol. He was the one who had cut her down on the witness stand.
It remained to be seen if he could live with it. If he could carry the burden, the weight of humanity, the names and faces of every last person he’d hurt or sacrificed or destroyed. Lee was so frakking naive. He didn’t understand that sometimes righteousness caused nothing but pain. The boy needed to learn to pick the battles that actually needed to be frakking won.
Bill was furious at his son for revealing her secret. Laura tried not to think about it. Tried not to relive those horrible moments sitting on the stand as Lee lashed out to prove his point. She didn’t have time for the sick fury that coiled in her stomach whenever she thought about his foolhardy pursuit of justice. But it was done and the exposure itself had been a relief. Hiding her illness would have been impossible. The physical scars would be visible before long. And now each one would be another wedge between Bill and his son.
She didn’t have time for this shit. Not for Bill to get used to her cancer or for Lee to get his self-righteous head out of his ass. She needed them to get over it. Needed them both to hold things together without her.
Zarek couldn’t be trusted. The Quorum was a handful of squabbling children, all out for their own interests. Tory was a mess who didn’t have what it would take to lead. Billy did, but he’d never gotten the chance.
She was stuck with her Adamas.
Lee thought that saving Baltar meant he was proving something about humanity. He had no idea what price the survival of humanity demanded from the soul.
Bill was no better. He thought they could beat the cancer. That she would suffer through the treatments and be cured. That everything would be ok and they could move on.
She couldn’t handle it. Couldn’t watch him sit by her hospital bed. Watch him ignore her sickness. Her disease. Her death. She couldn’t watch his face - intent on the fluid pumping into her veins. On the treatment. On the poison. Couldn’t look into the deep blue eyes brimming with anguish at her pain. Swelling with hope and faith - adamant that the drugs would work. That she would recover. That she would live.
Dying leaders have to die.