No, this is not the sequel to my happy AU. This is kind of the opposite of my happy AU. But the sequel is coming, I promise!
Missed You
Bill knows he's terminal.
That hadn't quite been the word they'd used at the veterans' hospital, nor had the rushed, overworked doctor actually said "hopeless," but it was what Bill had heard.
Lung cancer. Stage four. Six months, if he's lucky.
Bill isn't lucky.
He isn't lucky when he comes home from the war to find that his wife has taken up with their handsome next-door neighbor, and has no intention of letting his return end her affair. He isn't lucky when, after the divorce, she moves their two small sons back east to be closer to her family, where summers in her parents' pool prove more attractive to his children than sitting alone in his cramped apartment, waiting for a father who's always working.
He isn't lucky when the only way Zak and Lee choose to take after their old man is by joining the army and going off to war.
He isn't lucky when only Lee comes back.
He isn't lucky when retirement nears and Lee still isn't returning his calls and most nights find him down at the bar with his old army buddy Saul, drinking like they still think they're twenty.
Maybe the cancer is his version of luck, Bill muses ruefully. What does he have to look forward to, anyway, except a long, slow, lonely decline?
But he'd promised Saul that he wouldn't just roll over and die. Just as Saul had sworn, the last time that Bill found him passed out with a needle in his arm, that it had just been an accident, that he hadn't been trying to check out.
Maybe neither of them are very good liars.
The waiting room at the oncologist's is warm and inviting, with real paintings, not prints, framed on the dark wood paneled walls and a multitude of books, not just magazines to flip through, filling the shelves lining the room. Bill can see the effort that somebody put in here, to make this room feel safe, feel personal, and it makes him feel even more out of his depth. He could never have afforded to see this fancy doctor, much less gotten off the waiting list, except that apparently she'd once been a research assistant at the same lab that Saul's wife had worked in, and Ellen had called in a favor.
He just has to get through the appointment, Bill reminds himself. See the doctor, hear her admit that there's nothing to be done, and then he can get the hell out of here, go home, and live out his last months in peace.
"Mr. Adama?"
A nervous-looking young man in a suit, a lab coat, and a truly unfortunate paisley tie appears at the door to the inner office. Bill wonders if he's studying to be an oncologist, and finds himself hoping not. The kid doesn't seem to have the temperament for it.
"Dr. Roslin will see you now," he says.
Her office is much like the waiting room: tastefully decorated, meticulously neat, but somehow impersonal, as if it is designed to please its visitors more than its permanent occupant. But there are even more books here, lined up on bookcases, piled on the desk, stacked in corners, and Bill finds himself browsing the shelves as he waits. It's not just medical journals, as Bill would have expected, but history, politics, and so many novels; more novels than a serious doctor should have, surely.
"Find anything you like?" says a clear, feminine voice from behind him.
Candles. A narrow bunk. He wants to capture every moment, wrap it up, save it forever.
Bill turns, and maybe it's the mass in his lungs, maybe he's just becoming a sentimental old man, but something about her pale green eyes sends a pang shooting through his chest. The woman standing in front of him in the severe gray skirt and jacket is a stranger, he knows that, but somehow he also knows the way her eyes flash when she's angry, knows that they look greener when they're swimming with unshed tears. Her deep auburn hair is neatly styled, falling over her shoulders in smooth waves, but Bill knows that it looks its best wild and wind-blown, sunlight lighting up the red with gold and bronze; he knows that she considers it it her best feature, but that without it, he would still think she was beautiful.
She extends her hand, and Bill is almost afraid to take it. "I'm Dr. Roslin," she says.
They've sneaked away from the party, they're smoking under the stars, and somehow her head is nestled into his shoulder.
She wants to build a cabin.
He wants to build it for her.
He's sick, that's all it is. He's an old man, and he's lonely, and all it takes is a pair of pretty green eyes to completely turn his head. Maybe Saul's right, he tells himself. Maybe he really does need to get out more.
He realizes he's still holding her hand, and abruptly releases it. "I brought my own book," he replies.
Dr. Roslin glances at the chair beside him, where he'd tossed his book before abandoning it in favor of her bookshelves. "Dark Day," she reads from the cover. "A classic. I've never gotten around to reading it. Is it good?"
"One of my favorites," Bill answers. He knows what this is: the personal, rapport-building portion of the program, designed to make him feel more comfortable exposing his body and his history to a near-stranger. His doctor back at the veterans' hospital had done the same thing, asking about his family, rambling on about the weather, as though two minutes of forced conversation would make Bill more docile about his diagnosis.
She smiles, and it doesn't feel the same at all. "I'll have to make the time, then."
She sits down behind her desk, and motions for him to take a seat as well. Bill, who has balked at being told what to do since his days in the army, is sitting in one of the chairs in front of her desk before he even realizes what's happened. She opens up his chart and flips through the pages, one finger pushing her glasses up her face.
She's in a hospital bed, chemicals dripping into her veins. It won't be enough to save her. He wants to weep, he wants to scream, he wants to crawl into the bed with her and never get up.
Instead, he pulls out a book.
He tries to remember what it was like when he met his ex-wife, if it's been so long for him that infatuation itself has become foreign to him.
I absolutely would have built the cabin.
He cannot remember ever having felt this way before.
"Well, I'd want to repeat all these tests," she's saying. "And probably do a few more. But from what I can tell, you're—"
"Really screwed," Bill interjects gruffly.
Her lips quirk. She closes his file and drops it on her desk, giving him her full attention. "Probably," she admits. "Probably yes. But that actually makes you an ideal candidate for an experimental treatment protocol I'm putting together."
You shouldn't have listened to me.
Tears are falling from her eyes as she methodically sets every page on fire.
Don't touch me. Just go away.
She goes on to explain the treatment in some detail: genetic testing, blood transfusions, targeting of cancer cells through…something, Bill isn't sure. He's listening, he is, but mostly at the way her mind works, at the passion for her work carefully veiled behind that cool professional tone, the words on side effects, outcomes, statistics.
Her voice over the phone.
Yell at me. I don't want to get out of bed.
"I'm not going to give you false hope," she says at last. "The infusions are still in the experimental stage, and every patient reacts differently. It's possible that they will have no effect on your cancer's progression. It's likely that there will be side effects, which may be severe enough for you to have to discontinue the treatment altogether. It's very unlikely, but technically possible—" she stresses the word, "that the infusions will actually accelerate the cancer's progression."
Maybe tomorrow really isn't coming.
I've earned the right to live a little before I die…haven't I?
"I wish I could promise you remission," she says, her eyes locked on his, eyes that he knows—knows—he has trusted with far more important things than his life. "I wish I could promise you more time. But that's not the truth. The truth is that your chances of surviving even a year at this stage are slim, whatever treatment you choose. But I want you to consider what your participation in this study could mean. With the data we'll get from treating you, we'll be able to refine the protocol, make it better, make it stronger, and that will help us save other lives in the future…bring us a little closer to a cure, even."
He can tell that this is a pitch that she has given many times before.
I came here because I don't want you to worry about me…and I know what you have to do.
He already knows he will say yes.
He can think of worse ways to die than with this woman.
"Now," she continues briskly, "I encourage you to go home, think this through, talk it over with your family—"
I don't think I've ever felt truly at home until these last few months, here with you.
"I'm in," he says easily, because it is. "When do we start?"
Surprise flickers in her eyes for an instant, but her features are schooled in a professional mask, and it never wavers. "We can start as soon as next week," she replies. "Do you have any questions?"
He wonders how long she's been doing this, meeting people, treating them, watching too many of them die. He wonders what it would take for her to let her guard down, let him get to know the woman behind the sharp suit and dark-rimmed glasses.
He knows he probably doesn't have the time to find out.
"Just one," he says, getting to his feet. He's entitled to this much, he thinks. "What's your name?"
She leans back in her chair, considers him carefully from over the rim of her glasses. "Laura," she says at last.
I forgive you.
I didn't ask for your forgiveness.
Of course it is.
Maybe it's because he's dying, or because she didn't try to tell him any different, or maybe it's because she has an office full of books and no pictures on her desk.
Missed you.
Me, too.
Maybe he's just a crazy old man.
He places his book on her desk. "Keep it," he says. "It's a good book. I think you'll like it."
She shakes her head, lips curving in a smile that is achingly familiar. "This has to be a first edition," she says, trailing her fingers over the embossed cover. "I couldn't possibly."
Of course not. They are strangers, after all. She is a doctor, and he is yet another dying patient. Whatever he thinks he's felt in this room, that is all they've ever been, and all they'll ever be.
Tears in his eyes. Tears in her eyes. They have so little time…
"Let's call it a loan," she says. "And while I have this…" She pushes aside a stack of papers on her desk and hands him a battered paperback. "Have you ever read Searider Falcon?"
Yes, he thinks, even though he's never heard the title before.
"I'm sure I'll love it," he says instead.
"I'll see you next week, then?" she asks, the barest trace of hesitancy on her face.
A cabin, built by hand, resting on a grassy hilltop.
You should see the light that we get here.
It's almost heavenly.
"I'll be there," he promises.
"Good," she says.
Six months, he thinks.
It'll be enough.