Commander Adama studied the woman occupying the desk across from his chair and searched her features for any remaining signs of her earlier illness. He, like the rest of the fleet, had heard about her collapse over the wireless and it caused a momentary pause in his preparation to interrogate the Shelley Godwin woman. He'd entertained the idea of calling to make sure she was alright but, judging from the commotion on talk wireless, she had her hands full and there was going to be a press conference later in the day. He'd listened to that conference and smiled at her patience as she answered the same questions over and over again. Just the stomach flu. No, the food supply hasn't been contaminated. Yes, we're sure it was not an assassination attempt. I won't even dignify that question with a response.
Better you than me, Madam President, he'd found himself thinking.
But now, as her hands gestured wildly while explaining some point, he stopped to consider whether or not her responses had been completely truthful. She was always pale but her skin seemed almost translucent against the white top she was wearing, her jacket long ago discarded on a chair near her desk. She'd always been thin - he suppressed a smile at the memory of reminding himself to lecture the pilots on proper behavior in the gym when the vain school teacher showed up to pump iron but had forgotten about the idea when he never heard reports of the president being spotted there - but now she seemed thinner than just a few weeks ago. Bill stopped listening to the meaning of her words as he realized they were coming faster than usual and were accompanied by uncharacteristic jerky hand movements as she spoke. Had she been one of his pilots, the collection of symptoms would have alerted him to possible stims abuse. His eyes widened as a disturbing thought crossed his mind. Was the President of the Twelve Colonies on drugs?
The object of his unsettling thoughts had fixed him with a questioning look. He'd obviously missed his cue to respond to her question about Baltar.
As he recovered, she spun her chair around to look out the small window into space. The habit that he once thought signaled disrespect but now realized meant she was considering his points thoughtfully made him smile. He finished his response, hoping he'd covered for missing the first part of her question, but this time it was the politician who missed her cue.
"Madam President?" When he received no response from the chair across from him, he tried again. "Madam President?" The commander's voice rose in alarm when Roslin again failed to respond to her title. "Madam President, are you alright?"
He was standing to move to the other side of the desk when her aide rushed in, fixing him with an accusatory stare. Before the Commander could offer any words, Billy was kneeling beside the President's chair. Gods, Bill thought, that boy has a radar. The older man moved to the other side of the chair with surprising speed and was greeted by the sight of the president slumped, unconscious, in the folds of the leather seat.
Billy glanced up at the Commander, trying to keep the fear off his face, and touched her arm gently. "Madam President?" She startled at the touch and her aide audibly sighed in relief. It was obvious he'd been worried about a repeat of whatever exactly it was that had occurred earlier in the day.
"Oh, Billy..." Her voice was weaker and softer than the Commander had ever heard it. She blinked her eyes a few times, trying to clear her head, before noticing the Commander's concerned face at her elbow. He saw a glint of what he thought might be fear flash across her eyes before she steadied herself, speaking this time in her usual controlled tone.
"Commander Adama! I'm so sorry. I've not been feeling well today and I…" Her words trailed off as a wave of nausea hit her. She willed her body to obey her command to settle but it rebelled. She acquiesced but bargained mentally with her stomach to give her enough time to make it out of the room on her own power and into the bathroom before getting sick. She refused to throw up in front of the fleet's military leader.
She gave both men what she hoped was a reassuring smile before lifting herself from the chair. "If you gentlemen will excuse me for just a moment." She moved hurriedly and somewhat unsteadily toward the head.
Billy shot a concerned look toward her retreating form as he stood, prompting the elder man to do the same. Adama saved him. "I'll wait outside. Go make sure she's alright." Billy looked at him gratefully before following his boss behind the curtain.
Commander Adama was happy to wait in what served as the lobby to the president's official space on Colonial One. The last time he checked, listening to the president throw up was not in his job description. He smiled to himself, reminded of his earlier and now obviously ridiculous concern about the President taking drugs. She had the stomach flu and, with the stubborn resolve he'd quickly learned was characteristic, was trying to work through it.
Billy Keikaya emerged from behind the curtain with a slight rustle and interrupted the Commander's train of thought with a slight cough. The older man looked up and addressed the aide, his usually rough tone laced with concern.
"Is she ok?"
The Commander caught the momentary hesitation before Billy spoke and took the opportunity to apprise the aide's appearance. His gray suit was wrinkled and, like his boss, he looked pale and tired. Bill groaned inwardly as it occurred to him that whatever the president had was probably contagious, Billy probably had it too, and he'd spent the last hour working closely with both of them.
"She's fine, sir," he said, trying to sound certain. "She asked me to tell you she will be out in a few minutes to finish your meeting but…" He tried to tell the Commander with his eyes that it was time to leave and let the president rest. Whatever Cottle had given her made her tired and nauseous and he knew she was drawing on rapidly draining reserves of strength to continue working. It had been a long day, for both of them, and he wanted nothing more than to help the president to bed and settle into his usual spot in the chair outside of her bedroom, close enough to hear if she cried out in the night.
The Commander took the hint, not at all eager to spend more time with two vectors of illness. "No, no, Billy. Tell her that we can finish up tomorrow. She should rest and get better. I don't need her, and you for that matter," he said with a pointed look at the boy, " infecting anyone else."
Billy shot the Commander a grateful smile, pushing away his thoughts. Cancer wasn't contagious and the president was never going to get better, no matter how much rest she got.
Adama smiled back and turned to go. He stopped and looked back at Billy. "Thank you, Billy. I'll call and check on both of you in the morning." With that, he walked into the corridor and headed for the Raptor that was waiting to take him back to Galactica.
As he made his way to the shuttle, he tried to figure out what about the assistant's behavior struck him as odd. The way he sometimes caught the young man looking at the president with concern. The way he always seemed to be lurking nearby to rush to her side. The way he'd more than once interrupted a meeting that was running late into the evening, kindly insinuating that it was time to be done for the night. As he nodded to the Raptor pilot and put his foot on the first step, he made a mental note to rib the president about her little duckling when she was feeling better.
Once he was sure the Commander was gone, Billy re-entered the president's makeshift bedroom and found her standing in front of the mirror in the head, tucking in her shirt tightly and preparing, he was sure, to go back into her office, apologize to Adama, and continue their conversation.
"Madam President," he said softly, trying not to startle her with his reappearance. When she turned toward him, he continued. "Commander Adama has returned to Galactica for the night. He said you should rest and you can call him in the morning to finish up." He laughed shortly, adding, "I think he thinks you're about to infect the fleet with some awful stomach virus."
President Roslin gave her aide a sad smile, deciding to be grateful for rather than angry about whatever Billy had said to make the Commander go away.
"Alright, thank you." She laughed as well after a moment. "I suppose we're lucky that those side effects Cottle mentioned include throwing up." She grimaced involuntarily. She hated vomiting more than almost anything else and there was a part of her that suspected Cottle would think it served her right for overdosing on chamalla.
The president turned gracefully and started to unbutton the top of her blouse as she moved out of the head to sit on her bed. Billy grabbed her nightgown and robe from their place on the shelf and brought them to her. As he handed her the silky garments, he hesitated before speaking.
"Madame President, I wanted to apologize again for earlier. I didn't…" The president lifted her hand, cutting off Billy's thousandth apology since this afternoon.
"No more apologies, Billy. It's ok. I'm sorry I scared you. Thank you for all your help today." She smiled at him warmly, knowing he would understand it was a dismissal. She sighed inwardly as he nodded a good night and headed beyond the flap. She'd discovered during one of her more frequent bouts of insomnia that he'd taken to sleeping right outside her door and, while she was grateful, she worried about the toll keeping her secret was having on the boy she'd come to think of as a son.
Laura slipped off her skirt and pulled the light blue nightgown over her head, making a mental note to address Billy's new sleeping arrangement with him tomorrow. She dreaded becoming more of a burden to those around her in whatever time she had left.
As she settled back against her pillow and tried to get comfortable on the couch turned presidential cot, her mind wandered to Cottle's earlier words.
There's going to come a time when you can no longer hide what you're going through.
She wondered, not for the first time, what the Commander's reaction would be if she confided in him. She no longer worried that he would use her impending death sentence to remove her from office and assert military control over the fleet. They'd developed a fragile trust in one another in the weeks since the attack and she'd come to appreciate the long, comfortable conversations she had with the man she'd badly misjudged at their initial meeting. If she was honest with herself, she enjoyed the power she seemed to be developing over the military man that had less to do with her role as president and more to do with her as a woman. Once she told him about the way her body was betraying her, the stolen glances that sent a thrill through her body would be replaced with looks of pity and concern. She wasn't ready to deal with yet another man hovering over her, waiting to catch her when she inevitably falls.
Not yet, she thought, as she allowed sleep to overcome her. She wasn't dead yet and, Cottle be damned, she was strong enough to keep her secret for a little longer. She simply had to be.