A/N - Dedicate to okaynextcrisis. Thanks for the prompt :)
Heart and Soul
"It was nice meeting you, Laura," her date says, a slight smile softening his craggy features as he turns to leave her standing in her open doorway.
Stop him!
It's less a thought than a physical imperative, her very heart and soul conspiring without her consent to keep this strangely compelling man from leaving.
"Do you want to come in for a drink?" she blurts, then nearly looks around to see who has spoken, because she hasn't even decided if she likes the guy. Bill is taciturn and serious, and not really her type, physically speaking, but she has to admit there is something about his eyes that has her wondering what secrets lay behind them. In any case, he's already nodding in agreement, so she's committed. One drink, just so she can say she tried.
"Well, this is where I live," she says as she closes the door behind them, and then immediately rolls her eyes, because way to state the obvious, Laura. Luckily he's looking around and doesn't notice her mild embarrassment.
"Nice place," he says, sliding off his coat. His shoulders and biceps test the fabric of his white dress shirt and she begins to seriously reconsider her one drink plan. "You lived here long?"
She shrugs. "A couple of years. It's close to work. The neighbourhood is safe." She likes her house. She put a fair bit of effort into decorating it, choosing the colours, the furniture, but it's still just a house. She's doesn't think she's ever felt truly at home here. Something has always been missing, something intangible, though she can't explain what with any kind of eloquence.
After taking his coat, she directs him to the living room while she continues on to the kitchen in search of something to drink. Walking down the hall, the mirror on the wall catches her eye. She stops, staring in mild surprise at her image. Laura isn't an especially vain person, but something about her reflection today pleases her. She looks well-rested, and younger than she feels. The red in her hair is more prominent than it should be, a trick of the light coming from the entryway behind her she assumes. Involuntarily, her hand rises to comb through her long, thick curls. They're soft and silky and she shivers at the idea of Bill's strong hands repeating her actions.
The kitchen, when she enters it, smells faintly of cigarette smoke. She'll have to speak to her cleaning lady about smoking in the house. Retrieving the wine from the fridge and pulling some glasses from the cabinet, she considers making something to snack on, crackers or fruit, then shrugs. They had just had dinner, hadn't they? She's not very hungry.
Bill stands when she enters the room, sitting again only when she does. "Allow me," he says, taking the wine bottle from her hands. He pours two glasses and hands one to her. "To your health," he says softly, almost as though she isn't meant to hear, before meeting her eyes and raising his glass. "And to new friends."
"New friends," she murmurs, clinking her glass carefully against his and taking a sip. The wine is full-bodied and rich and she takes another sip before setting down her glass and turning to face him, drawing her legs up under her and resting her head on her arm against the back of the couch.
She finds him watching her closely, wine glass on his knee, his large hand dwarfing the bowl, an enigmatic smile softening his roughhewn visage.
"What?" she asks.
He shakes his head, then reaches out to gingerly touch her hair, not exactly running his fingers through it as she had imagined earlier, but stroking it lightly with his fingertips. "I always loved your hair."
Her eyes widen, and a giggle of surprise emerges. "You did? What an odd way to phrase a compliment. You don't like it now? Has it changed since dinner?"
He shakes his head ruefully. "No, of course not. You know what I mean."
She laughs again and reaches up to take his hand, giving it a little squeeze before returning it to him. "I suppose I do. Now, if you'll excuse me for a moment, I need to freshen up."
"Of course."
She can feel his eyes on her all the way up the stairs, his desire for her thrillingly clear, but not the only emotion physically present in the room. There's something more here, something she can't quite place and that alone should make her nervous, but somehow it doesn't. She knows she can trust this man, trust him with her heart, her body, with her very life.
So dramatic, Laura, she tells herself as she crosses her bedroom to the ensuite bathroom. He's just a nice man, that's all. A nice man who wants you, and it feels good to be wanted, doesn't it? It's been such a long time since she's been with someone. The last time seems like a lifetime ago, the memory blurry as if it was nothing more than a dream she once had.
After freshening her makeup and dabbing on a bit of perfume, she turns to go back downstairs, passing by her dressing table on her way and glancing fondly at the photos of her family displayed there. "Wish me luck," she whispers to them.
And then she stops. As if under its own steam, her hand reaches out to touch one of the pictures, a stiffly posed photo of herself and Bill encased in a wooden frame. He's wearing some sort of uniform and she's in a suit she's never seen before. How can this be? She and Bill have only just met. Why can't she remember this picture? Suddenly dizzy, she closes her eyes, clutching at the table for support. The breath rushes from her lungs and blindly she turns to stumble the short distance to her bed.
After several deep breaths, she opens her eyes again and presses her hand to her chest until her heart rate returns to normal. A panic attack? She's never had one before, but she supposes there's a first time for everything. A panic attack brought on by nervousness over the man currently in her living room, who's probably wondering what's taking her so long.
Standing to leave, she glances at the photos on her dressing table, pausing to touch her favourite one of her sisters, the two of them standing with their arms around each other. "Wish me luck," she whispers to her them, ignoring a fading sense of déjà vu. Bill is waiting for her.
He's at her bookshelf when she returns. "Find anything interesting?" she asks.
He turns around, a faded red book open in his hands. "Searider Falcon," he says, his eyes sparkling with pleasure. "It's one of my favourites."
"Mine too," she agrees, though she doesn't remember it very well.
He joins her again on the couch and begins to read aloud, his voice so deep and gravelly she doesn't just hear it, she feels it all around her, inside her, warming her blood and pulling at her heart.
Sinking back against the cushions, her hand rises to cover her mouth as hot tears spill from her eyes. "I don't remember," she despairs when he pauses to turn the page. "I don't remember how it ends." She should remember; it's important she remember.
"I've never read the ending," he tells her, reaching over take her hand. "I like it so much I don't want it to be over. So I'm saving it."
Laura just shakes her head miserably. "Everything has to end sometime, doesn't it?"
Bill tries to reply, his expression earnest, but she can't understand him over a sudden loud electronic beeping.
Tears drying, she straightens in her seat and drops his hand. "What's that noise?"
"What noise?" he asks. "I don't hear anything."
"How can you not hear it? It's deafening." Jumping up, she walks around the room, trying to place the odd sound that seems to be coming from nowhere and everywhere all at once.
"It's nothing, Laura." Bill is at her side, his hand on her arm. "Don't worry about it. See, it's stopped."
And it has. She takes his arm, the wool jacket of his uniform scratchy against her bare forearm, and allows him to lead her back to the couch.
"What were we talking about?" she asks, picking up her glass. She's having trouble concentrating. Perhaps she shouldn't have had so much wine, though when she looks at the bottle, it's still nearly full.
"Our future," Bill tells her. She doesn't remember that, but it sounds nice.
"Our future," she repeats. "Will we get married?"
"We could," he says, twisting a gold band around on his finger. "Would you like that?"
"I…I don't know. I…it's the funniest thing, Bill. I can't even remember making this date."
He chuckles. "Should I be offended?"
"No, I just… How did we meet again?"
He smiles. "We met in a bookstore. We were both eyeing the same copy of Prima's Dark Day. Gentleman that I am, let you have it, but not before you agreed to have dinner with me. Maybe I should confess now, though. I already have three copies of Dark Day. I just wanted to talk to you."
She frowns. None of that sounds familiar at all. "Really, Bill, is that what happened? I…I don't remember; are you sure you're being honest?"
He looks so unhappy at her accusation that she almost wishes she hadn't asked. "It could have happened like that," he says sadly. "Or maybe we met at a museum, or a park, or at some boring function we were both forced to attend. It could have happened in so many ways, Laura. You don't really need to know which one, do you?"
She should know though, shouldn't she? He could be the love of her life, this strange, beautiful man who talks in riddles about the future and the past, and…
Pain!
A sudden sharp ache in her chest steals her breath. She doubles over on herself, fighting for air.
"Laura?" he asks. "What's wrong?" He's at her side immediately, his arm around her back, holding her close to his side.
"I can't breathe. Bill, I…I can't. It hurts." The pain burns through her like fire, up her arms and through her chest into her lungs. She wraps her arms around her middle, fighting the nausea that has joined the pain, rocking back and forth while he rubs her back and brushes back her hair.
"It's okay, Laura. I'm here," he repeats over and over. His voice is calming, almost hypnotic, and the strength of it easing her panic if not the actual pain. "What's happening to me?" she gasps out.
"You know what, Laura."
"I…no, I don't. What…"
"I'm here with you, Laura. Open your eyes." He sounds suddenly very far away.
"My eyes are open," she whispers.
"Open your eyes."
"No," she moans, shaking her head from side to side. "No, no. I don't want to."
"Doctor, she needs you," Bill calls to Cottle before turning back to the tiny, wasted figure in the hospital bed. "It's okay, Laura. Open your eyes. Look at me; I'm here."
The beeping of the heart monitor beside her bed speeds up, as Laura's head turns from side to side in on her pillow. Every muscle in her frail body tenses. "No," she repeats, so softly he can barely understand. "No, I don't want to." A single tear leaks down her withered cheek.
Bill folds her hand in his and brings it to his lips. "I'm here, Laura, it's okay, I've got you. You're going to be fine." She has to be and he'll be damned if he's going to let her go without a fight. He can't do this without her.
"She needs something for the pain," he growls again, but Cottle, cigarette hanging from his lips, is already there, plunging a syringe into her IV line.
"This should give her some relief," he says, and indeed Laura's moans begin to quiet, and her head stops thrashing. Within minutes her body is relaxed again and his own heart rate begins to return to normal, the coils of fear in his belly relaxing.
When she's like this, calm, not in any obvious distress, he can almost convince himself that she's just sleeping, dreaming maybe, of him and the life they should have had together. After pulling the curtain around them, he wipes the tear from her cheek with one crooked finger, and picks up her hand again.
"I'd take you to the nicest restaurant in Caprica City," he begins anew, a story he's spun for her many times over the past few weeks here in Life Station. "Maybe one with dancing. And after, if I was very lucky, maybe you'd invite me in for a drink."
"It was nice meeting you, Laura," her date says, a slight smile softening his craggy features as he turns to leave her standing in her open doorway.
Stop him!
It's less a thought than a physical imperative, her very heart and soul conspiring without her consent to keep this strangely compelling man from leaving.