A/N: Originally written for the ar_drabbles community on Livejournal, challenge no. 120 (recovery). 300 words.
Laura hates that her skin is perpetually dry. She hates that her lips are always chapped, that her scalp itches underneath the wig, and that the last tube of lipstick she'll probably ever see again is nearly empty. But more than any of these things, she hates that Bill's clear blue eyes are dull and glassy right now with alcohol, that that glassiness is the only look he seems capable of lately, and her anger is a seething ember inside her.
He watches her sulk quietly, buried in her corner of the couch, until he runs out of patience. "What?" he snaps, in that gruff, angry way the alcohol brings out.
"You know," she muses bitterly to the book in her hands, unable to look at him, "two years ago I never would have imagined that when Ellen Tigh would ask for a flask, you'd be the one to give it to her."
He bristles, as she knew he would. "I can quit any time," he insists, as he has before, and she slams the book shut.
"Then prove it," she challenges, icily, and Bill's eyes narrow.
They stand off for a short time, before she breaks eye contact, turning her head away, and he knows instantly that there are tears in her eyes. The fire goes out of him, and he is by her side, his hands pulling her into him. Her face presses into his shoulder. He should apologize. Apologies never come easily to him.
"I don't know how much time I have left, Bill," she whispers, "and you're wasting it."
He swallows hard, feels his heart clench painfully, and looks at the glass on the table. He doesn't know if he can go without it, but he promises himself, silently; for this, for her, he will try.