held a friendly competition to see who could produce the most comment ficlets for their pairing(s). My BSG muse has been living it up in some undisclosed tropical location and she won't return my calls, but whatever. I knew I had short stories that were mere sentences away from completion, along with a couple longer stories that likely won't ever be finished but had scenes that could be made to stand on their own. Considering that my BSG folder has more unfinished stories than I care to admit, it was a relief to wrap up at least a few of them. I'd like to think I'm not totally done with my BSG writing days, but I do know these are probably the last of the ones I'll have to share for awhile.
She wakes at some point in the night with a frightened moan. Trembling, incoherent, and not entirely cognizant of her surroundings, Laura seems to be still caught in some tangled cobweb of sleep's remnants.
Bill wonders how often she wakes like this as he runs a soothing hand across her sweat-soaked arm. What nightmares she must have as a result of the stress and pressures of her duties? Or were they caused by something that happened long before the waking nightmare they now live in happened?
Forty-something years of military, sometimes on the battlefront, has prepped him to handle these sort of situations, how to set aside these things. It also helps that he's never been one to become too perturbed by whatever oddities and disturbances his subconscious dredges up while he dreams.
But she's ill-equipped for the life she's leading now. She’s living on the run and seeing the horrors of war in a way that was never meant to be seen. They all are and not everyone can compartmentalize as well as he does.
Finally the reality of her surroundings catches up with her. She collapses back onto the mattress as her body loses the tension-racked fear that races through her limbs.
It was all just a dream he tells her, but then she tenses once more. Her eyes dart around the room as she seems to try and recall what just happened, whether she said anything damning in the throes of her delusions.
He kisses her shoulder and murmurs more calming, nonsensical gibberish against her skin.
She settles back into his arms and tries to calm her wildly beating heart, and he continues to remain unaware of the chamalla’s affects to her psyche.
In three and a half years, you cannot recall a single moment when you've ever seen her so rattled, so angry.
She can hardly stand to look at Baltar. Tension vibrates off of her, filling the room with its presence. When he dares to address her, she bristles at the sound of his voice and actually retreats behind you so she won't have to look at him.
For the first time since the New Caprican exodus, you see everything she tries to hide, the exact affect the Cylon occupation really had on her.
Something dark unfurls within you.Intuition
Bill was still on duty when Laura entered his quarters. For this, she was immensely grateful. She needed this time alone in a quiet place to process, to evaluate, to figure out how she was ever going to break this to him and not break him while she did.
Carelessly tossing her briefcase on the table, she flopped down on the sofa without any sort of grace and buried her face in her hands.
This was it. The gods had not granted her any kind of a merciful miracle but merely a brief reprieve from a fate she could not escape. Cottle hadn't even needed to say the words to her when he'd called her into his office. The diagnosis and prognosis was written in eyes that almost couldn't bear to look at her, broadcast across the resigned droop of his shoulders as he uttered words she didn't really hear. The cancer came back.
Sitting up straighter, she unbuttoned her jacket, then the first few buttons of her blouse. She placed her hand on the infected breast and shook her head. A suffocating knot of panic formed in her chest, shortened her already unsteady breaths, and she felt the sting of tears that starting to form.
She wouldn't cry. Not now, she told herself as she gasped a few gulps of air, attempted to ease her tension.
This all happened before but it was different this time. Three years ago, it was easier. She had no attachments, save for perhaps Billy. It was just her and little else to tie her so emotionally to this existence. Just a drive to get her people to a safe haven, even if it came at the most personal of costs to herself.
This time she had a dear friend and occasional lover in Bill, along with the nebulous idea that, under different circumstances, something deeper and profound could have happened between them. And while she couldn't quite put a name to how she felt for him, she knew that he could, that he felt more deeply than he'd ever voice aloud to her.
The thought of that both terrified her and yet made her want to protect him from herself, protect from having him see the deterioration of her body and soul that would happen when she started treatment. She didn't want him to have to see her like that.
Unbidden, the thought of her mother and the swift progression of her own cancer entered her mind. With that suddenly in mind, she couldn't bear to sit still any longer and sprang up from the sofa to begin pacing the room, trying to shake the images of her mother fading away before her eyes.
The pacing did nothing to expel the nervous energy buzzing within her. She entered the bathroom and forced herself to study her reflection. Outwardly, there was nothing to indicate the turmoil her body was going through. She ran her hands through her hair and shuddered as she thought of the treatments available to her.
Chamalla and diloxin. Both came with side effects that were unsavory. The chamalla with it's hallucinogenic properties that blurred the line between reality and the fantastical, and the diloxin that would leave her constantly cold, nauseous, rob her of her hair and dignity. A bitter part of her wondered if there really was any point in bothering with either or both, even if only to buy herself a little more time to finish business. Instinctively, she felt that this time it would be a battle she would ultimately lose.
She sighed, straightened out her disheveled clothes, buttoned up her blazer, and moved to smooth the wayward strands of her hair.
She retreated to this space in order to try and come to terms with this, but she didn't want to deal with it right now after all. What she needed was more time to collect herself in a space that did feel so personal to her. She'd figure out how to proceed when her emotions weren't so raw.
With one more glance at the mirror, she made sure she presented a fit enough picture to head back to the raptor and onward to Colonial One without drawing concern.
Just as she picked up the briefcase, the hatch swung open, and with that, all her fears bubbled to the surface as Bill stepped over the threshold of his quarters. He only took one look at her panic-stricken face and stiff posture, and instantly, he looked concerned.
He had an uncanny ability to read her all too well; she knew wouldn't be able to leave without telling him.
She still had no idea how to do so.Lucky
As Laura steps over the threshold into the commander's living quarters for the first time, it strikes her just how damned lucky Adama is.
His quarters are at least three times the size of the visitor's quarters she was offered prior to the decommissioning ceremony. In fact, she lived in a few apartments that were smaller than this when she first got out of college.
Her gaze sweeps across the room as she sits down on his sofa, one that was clearly not military issue. In fact, none of the furniture or fixtures seem to be military, she notes. It's a surprisingly homey living space, warm with natural tones rather than the cold, sterile gray she expected of him.
The rooms are perhaps a bit disheveled at the moment, an organized sort of chaos, but then he clearly had been packing for his retirement, of course. She's sure if she'd seen this room under different circumstances, it would not have been anything less than immaculate. There are decorative knickknacks throughout the room, a painting by an artist that's familiar (she's sure she'd remember his name if she didn't have so much else on her mind), and she spies bookshelves in the back of the room along the piles before him that he's now unpacking. She's not sure he actually has enough shelving to store all of them and she almost smiles at that.
It's the photographs she sees all around the room that that make her chest constrict a little bit. She thinks of the photos of family and friends that were once scattered throughout the surfaces of her own home. They’re all lost to her now and she regrets that she stopped carrying photos in her wallet a few years ago, though she had her reasons to stop doing so at the time.
She wonders when memory alone will no longer be enough to recall their faces.
It suddenly occurs to her how little she has left, how little almost any survivors outside the bulkheads of this particular ship have now.
He has all the comforts of home. This is a home. She doesn't even have a corner on Colonial One yet that she can really call her own nor anything to fill such a space with other than the contents of her luggage. What might she have packed if she'd any any inkling that she'd never see her home and belongings ever again?
More important than worldly belongings, though, William Adama has people. He still has his son, his own flesh and blood. He has a crew that admires and respects him. Those familial bonds were apparent from the moment she stepped aboard the Galactica.
Laura hopes the commander realizes how blessed he is.The Moment Eternal
She smiled as she curled up under the blankets and remembered the kiss he gave her. The gentle press of his lips upon hers evoked emotions and sensations she hadn't felt in ages. It lasted only a moment and yet somehow meant everything.
She felt a tiny bit foolish treasuring such a small thing with such girlish wonder, but then...
What harm was it really going to do at this point?
It wouldn't be much longer now. Her bad days outnumbered the good, and the effort it required just to walk across a small room, even on those rare good days and even with assistance, plagued her every day now.
She could let herself have this one moment of sweetness, pure and lovely, wrapped in the knowledge that someone cared about her on a personal level, she decided. Something to hold onto and boost her spirits as she slipped away.Spark of the Soul
He waited for her backstage after the debate.
She giggled again and Bill grinned at her.
"I thought this was only supposed to happen beforehand." His eyes sparkled, clearly enjoying this whole new side of her. He never could have conjured the idea of Laura Roslin in such a state before this evening. He liked it.
She bit her lip and willed herself to calm down. "After the debates that went well, it'd happen again. A sort of nervous release, I guess."
"This went very well."
She nodded and squeezed his arm. "Yes, it did." Reunion
(this is post-Exodus Part II, just in case the text doesn't make that clear)
She rounded the corner and nearly tripped over her own feet when she saw him down the corridor speaking to one of his crew.
As if he sensed her presence, he looked up a moment later and the expression on his face softened. Turning back to the crewman, he said something, probably some sort of dismissal, and then he was walking toward her.
Her feet moved of their own accord to meet him halfway.
Propriety didn't really allow for the massive hug she wanted to give him. Instead, they both reached out to shake hands.
"Madame President, it’s good to see you."
They both grinned at each other. Propriety would have to make a few exceptions after all.