Disclaimer: Laura and Bill are not mine. If only.

This fic is for Kate, for reading and encouraging me so much a year ago when I had not published one single word yet.

It must have been a couple of hours. She has arrived late, that much he can tell: it was past the time of their meeting already when he last checked his watch. He had spent those extra minutes berating himself wordlessly for the impatience growing inside his chest. He had just hoped she would come, even if late. In spite of the recent events she was never one to back off from her duties. However, he was not so sure Laura would show up once the meeting between the President and the Admiral would be over. Not after the trial and what she obviously felt as a hurtful betrayal on his part. Not when he was convinced her relapse would make her eager to build a wall between them. He knew her too well to fool himself about that.

Actually, as if to kill any hope he might have about her course of action once the trial would be over, she had started to withdraw already. No glint in her eyes; no amused, knowing grins; not even the vaguest attempt at a short, shared downtime; no comments or remarks beyond the strictly professional. The President is a wandering ghost, an empty shell: no signs of Laura within.

Sometime later, her head had finally appeared behind the open hatch, preceded by her weary footsteps. That sound so dear and familiar had sent his heart racing in anticipation, an uncomfortable mixture of relief and apprehension clutching at his gut.

She had dragged her body into his quarters almost reluctantly, not quite succeeding in her attempt to disguise her exhaustion and her defeat. Too proud not to offer him a smile, he had painfully noted it was just the forced, polite-but-pissed-off-politician kind of smile. It was the sort of smile that set the mask further on her features instead of taking it off to reveal her true self. The shadows under and inside her eyes, her shoulders slumped forward, the lack of grace in her stride, the deep sigh she had failed to stifle as she tossed her bag on a chair told a totally different tale, though.

Okay. He could deal with this. He had navigated these waters before. He might not be able to break through her defenses, to comfort her, to cheer her up, but at least he knew very well how to talk and behave so as not to mess up with her mood any further. He knew better than to push. He would stick to the most urgent matters, to the issues where her opinion or her advice were imperative. He would not get too close to her physically. He would just fix her a drink, then pour one for himself (not ambrosia, not this time), come back and sit down across her. He would keep his attention focused, his voice steady. He would do his best so as not to let his concern show. He would avoid calling her Madame President as much as he would avoid calling her Laura.

He would manage.

And now she is getting ready to leave. She is standing by his desk piling folders, collecting some of the papers that both of them have spread across the surface of the table in the last couple of hours and stacking the ones destined to stay there under his watch. Her hair falls like a curtain on both sides of her face obscuring her traits, sharpening the halo of darkness she already had about her the moment she came in. She has not even discarded her heels during their meeting. Just as he had feared, she has not allowed herself to relax and now, clearly, she will not stay in his company one second more than necessary. If anything, her stiffness makes her look even more fragile. She looks like she could crumble any moment and she seems determined to get as far as possible from him before it happens.

He cannot let her leave like this.

He will not catch one second of sleep tonight if he does and, more importantly, neither will she. As much as she has been all business, as much as she now pretends she is done here.

Maybe she is not pretending: maybe she really is done.

A lump blocks his throat for a second and he almost panics, fearing it will stop him from speaking when he needs his voice most.

"Laura, how are you?" he produces, half choked.

His tone, lower than usual, gives away his attempt at shifting the mood. The Admiral is no longer here. It's your confident, your partner and friend confronting you now.

She does not look up yet she stills her movements. Her slim hands rest quiet on top of her bag as she draws a deep breath, then lets it out. It almost looks like she is making sure she can still do it. Her reply seems to emerge from the very source of regret and sorrow.

"Cottle has run some tests. He says I am strong." Pause. "For now." she bitterly adds.

Bill closes his eyes for a second. The dull pain her remark inflicts on him sticks to his skin like a glue coating. Then he looks up at her again and nods.

"It's good to hear that. Although that is not quite what I meant."

She freezes. Her hands clench into fists, her knuckles turn white. He tilts his head a little to the side so as to catch a glimpse of her face. She stares through the wooden surface of his desk with a naked fury that could pierce a hole in it.

"I need to go." She bites the words.

In one swift movement he would have sworn she would not be capable of producing in her current drained state she zips the bag, pulls the strap up her shoulder and turns around.

His hand lands on her forearm. After a second, he realizes his grip on her flesh is tighter than he intended. He has stopped her and she just waits, all of her muscles tense as wire strings, holding her breath, her back half-turned to him. She does not try to shake him off, though. He opens his fingers a little, releases her not quite letting go, afraid that she will get rid of him with a sharp pull as soon as she senses his grip loosening.

She does not. She stays still as if his touch secured her, as if his hand kept her rooted to the ground despite herself.

"Laura, wait. Please."

Nothing. If only she would give him her eyes.

"I'm sorry. It's my fault."

She snorts. Okay. That is some reaction. It is something at least.

"How can my cancer possibly be your fault?"

He stays silent.

"You're not the center of the universe, Bill." She spits out. "No matter how badly you would like it to, not everything has to revolve around you and your oh-so-righteous actions."

He needs to think she does not know how those words stab his heart. He does not respond. He leaves her accusations floating in the thick air. He drops the hand from her arm and shakes his head.

"Not the cancer. I mean… I mean I should have figured this out much earlier. I should never have waited this much."

What does this much mean exactly? His own words sound ambiguous to his ears. Does he mean all the time it has taken him to try and talk to her again (really talk to her) after the trial? Is he thinking about the time they have lost to their responsibilities over the years, all the chances they have missed for the sake of humanity? He is not even sure. He regrets all of these things, and all of them so badly, that maybe it does not matter anyway. Whatever her guess is, she will be just right.

He is still wondering what she must have understood when he hears her snap back.

"I would be dying of cancer just the same if you had."

A grimace darkens his features. It is the truth. It is the sad, terrible, gut-wrenching truth and it makes the sole thought of the wasted time all the more unbearable. He cannot cure her cancer. But he can do other things. For one, he can help her fight it. If she forgives him.

He faces her back with all the bravery he can muster and summons himself to produce a firm voice.

"Laura, please. Let me in. Let me help you. I want to be there for you." He swallows hard. "There is nothing I want more."

She does not make him wait for a reply.

"And this, just because you feel guilty now that I'm sick again."

There is more grief than reproach in her tone. It is a hint of hope. A door cracked open.

"No." he rasps. "No, Laura. This is because I can't stand the thought of you going through this alone. And I… I need to do something. Otherwise, it will drive me crazy. This disease… this disease is not just yours, Laura. Not anymore. Now it's mine, too."

His admission is met with silence. He is aware he has just pushed a little further the elusive line they have drawn between them over the years. Once a firm boundary, that line is little more than a blurred thread right now. He has been bold, treaded upon it, taken his chances. He has just rolled the hard six and now he holds his breath, ready for her anger to hit him full force: You have no idea what I will have to endure, what I am enduring already. How can you even pretend this disease is yours?

He knows his words have sunk in when he sees her turn around slowly and lay down her bag on the desk again. She keeps her face low but he manages to read doubt and ache in her gaze as she looks down. Something is melting. That stubborn part of her always ready to shut everyone out, even more so those she cares the most about, even more so when her suffering becomes almost unbearable, is on the verge of surrender.

Her reply comes out broken, her objection weak.

"I… I might not be easy to be around, Bill. And this is going to get ugly. Really ugly."

"I know. I'm ready to fight. Alongside you. As we always do."

She shakes her head. Her soft curls wave around her shoulders.

"I don't… I don't think I want you to see me like that."

She chokes her whisper out just over the threat of tears. She can barely contain them now.

Bill smiles tenderly. Her vulnerability undoes him; her admission makes him weak at the knees. She does not want him to see her fragile, or charmless. She does not want him to witness her misery, does not want her misery to become his burden.

Oh, Laura. If only you knew that I don't give a frak.

"Laura, look at me." He reaches out and pulls her chin to him gently. "I will fight this fight with you. And no matter what happens, I will always see you. You will always be you to me."

She gives in and looks up at him for the first time since she has arrived. She leans her cheek against his palm almost imperceptibly. Maybe this is what she has needed to hear to begin with; maybe these are the words she has been craving. Maybe she does not have the strength to fight him any longer. Her eyes are glassy but she does not seem to care, no longer tries to hide. She bites her lower lip. It does not stop it from trembling. Bill feels the mist invade his own eyes. He takes her hand, squeezes it. Then he tugs at it gently.

"Come here."

That is all it finally takes. One tentative step, then another one, and she enters the circle of his arms which close around her like a sweet fortress. After a few seconds, he feels her arms wrap around his waist. She buries her head in the crook of his neck.

Laura weeps silently. As she does, shoulders shaking, wave after wave of pain coursing through her body, he holds her tight. He strokes her head, sinks his fingertips in the ocean of her locks, keeps her secured to him, kisses her temple, mumbles soothing words.

His universe has found its center again. Everything is in place, everything is alright.

He cries.

"It's okay. Let it go, Laura. Let it go."

You're safe. I won't let anything bad happen to you.

I love you.

Alright. Here it is. He has known it all along and yet it hits him as a realization. A warm, powerful one. He welcomes it, amazed and grateful.

Only, saying it aloud might have to wait. He cannot be sure she is equally ready. True, there have been signs. She has certainly given him hints to her feelings these last months. However, she has just had a lot of trouble just to let him in, to accept his care, his affection, and his company. There is only so much a human heart can take before the weight of emotion gets too overwhelming.

In this very second, he cannot tell if he is more concerned about hers or his own.

She clings to him like a lifesaver now. He can physically feel the tension leaving her; her body relaxing, going limp into his arms. The angry cloud of sorrow she brought in lifts and fades slowly. All of her grievances, her fears and her regrets seem to release their prey at last, one after the other, in a ghost parade. He could almost swear he can smell them, see them hanging on the air as if they were vapor figures: the trial, the cancer, his son's betrayal. His own betrayal. Maybe even New Caprica: those memories that haunt her more often that she would admit, too hurtful for her to trust him with them. He chokes back his tears.

He will create a safe harbor for her.

"We will defeat this enemy."

Never before did a murmur sound so resolute.

Laura lifts her head and pulls back. She captures his gaze with her own, tender and regretful, a barely- there sparkle on her emerald eyes, between rows of wet lashes.

"Bill, I'm the dying leader…"

It is a warning, a reminder of the inevitable. Maybe even a mild suggestion that he should protect himself, think twice before he gets too close.

He does not care. He is way past the day when he was still making a choice. He plunges into those green pools, so full of water right now.

"You're something much more important than that. You're Laura Roslin, the most amazing woman I've ever met."

She sniffs and shuts her eyes in pain. The truth and the sweetness of his words seem to hurt her more than any punch. Then she exhales deep, long and ragged, like making a conscious effort to extricate herself from the grip of sorrow. He strokes her cheeks, lovingly brushes away the traces of her tears.

"Laura."

He says her name against her forehead, his lips lingering, his breath caressing her skin.

"Hmm?"

"Move in with me."

He feels her whole body go rigid. She lifts her head: there is a marked frown between her brows. She opens her mouth ready to protest. Bill lifts a hand to stop her.

"Before you object, please consider this: you would be closer to sickbay, you would have more time. To rest, to catch up with work after your treatments… whatever. You would not being wasting your precious energy unnecessarily. You are going to need even the last drop of it to fight this fight. What is so terrible about the president getting some help, making her daily life a little easier? Isn't that good for the fleet too?"

She narrows her eyes, tilts her head. She is considering his words. He reads the doubt in her traits even before she speaks again.

"I can't do this to you, Bill. You don't need me, my sickness here. You don't deserve it."

"You can't protect me, Laura. Not anymore. It's far too late for that. By saying yes you would be doing me a favor, actually."

She smiles faintly.

He knows she is not ready to give up just yet.

"People will talk."

"They will. Screw them."

For the first time, she chuckles. She makes this little noise, not quite happy yet definitely amused. Just like that, a new source of light finds its way into the room.

"Laura, we are grown- ups. We will make this work. We won't give them reasons to object. Nobody will be able to say a word."

She sighs. Now, yes, this is her surrender. He does not fool himself: he knows she feels defeated, she feels she is agreeing to this against her best judgement. It makes her decision all the more valuable.

"Alright."

Soft. Barely a whisper, but a resolved one.

She must think she has just put a giant burden on his shoulders with that word but he feels his heart sing and his own eyes sparkle. He knows she can read all of it in his face. This should be more convincing to her than any word he can speak. She has just given him the greatest gift.

"Let's call Tory later. She will arrange everything."

Laura nods. Their eyes lock again and they linger, plunging into each other's depths, exchanging shy, knowing smiles that tell one another everything else; all those things they have left unsaid.

He is not sure how it has happened but he notices their hands are linked. Hers are slim, delicate. He is in awe at how much strength can exude from such small, fragile forms; at the amount of responsibility and the hideous burdens she manages to handle with them. Bill strokes her skin with the pads of his thumbs, kisses her forehead.

"What do you feel like doing now?"

She blinks, momentarily nonplussed, like waking up from a strange dream and landing back into reality. She clears her throat.

"How… how long do we have before dinner?"

He checks his watch.

"About an hour. Do you want to take a shower, borrow a book? Or maybe take a nap? Oh, surely you're dying to read the latest supply reports."

She giggles and gives him a thankful look. Such a reward for making her laugh.

"A nap sounds tempting." She admits.

He nods. Placing a hand on the small of her back, he leads her to his rack. She stops right there, motionless and reflective; she casts a sidelong glance at him.

"This is just for the nap, Admiral. I am not going to remove you from your rack. No way."

She has almost found her presidential tone again. A note of mirth tinges her voice.

"Okay. We can talk about that later."

He walks to his closet and comes back with a thick blanket. Laura has taken up the rack already. She has discarded her heels (at last) and she is lying on her side, right on the comforter, visibly refusing to get between the sheets, to make proper and effective use of his bed. She is not willing to take up his space as much as she is not ready to give up her own. He knows this is what it really means. He can read that by now.

Bill sits on the edge of the rack and spreads the blanket over her. He caresses her arm in passing, then lays down his hand on her shoulder and leaves it there. He is pretending more casualness than he really means. But it has to be this way. Having her right there, being allowed to take care of her is such a blessing already.

"You warm?"

She curls up under the blanket. Her cheeks are rosy; her eyes shed light from just above the rim of the cover pulled up to her nose. Her hip curves up and descends towards her feet, her legs slightly bent. Locks of auburn hair spread over his pillow.

Bill swallows.

"Hmm. Not yet. But I will."

He smiles.

"Okay. Call me if you need something else."

Bill reaches out and strokes her hair. She closes her eyes against the feeling. The urge to kiss her becomes almost overwhelming.

He motions to stand up.

"Bill."

He stops, turns to her.

"Yes."

"Thank you."

He nods, lets out a soft affirmative grunt.

They fall still and silent, eyes locked, breathings held.

"What are you doing now? Go back to CIC?"

"Not tonight. My shift is early morning. I'll probably grab a drink, sit on the couch and read a little."

Her expression tells him there is something else she is not saying. He waits, gives her room and time to figure out her next words. Whatever she is up to, however, she does not look like she is going to speak anytime soon. He turns around to stand up once more just to get stopped again when she blurts out.

"Stay."

He stops cold. Stay where? As much as he would like to, he is not sure he understands.

"Stay here with me, Bill."

Yes. He has understood perfectly well. No risk that he might be misreading this.

"Are you sure?"

Laura props herself up on one elbow. The blanket slides down her arm. She nods.

"I am." Pause. "Please."

His heart clenches at the sight of this proud, strong woman pleading for his company, at the evidence of her vulnerability. She does not even care to hide it now. This is her trust. And it is precious.

He does not move immediately. He is afraid of looking too eager. He is afraid of just doing this. He is afraid because he craves it so badly and now, suddenly, he is allowed to do it. Laura herself is asking him to.

Bill unbuttons and shrugs off his tunic, unties his boots, takes off his belt. When he is done he turns around to look at her once again, to check her expression one last time and make sure she is not regretting it already.

Her smile is almost blinding.

Laura shifts back to make room for him beside her. Bill slips under the blanket and pulls her to him. She snuggles impossibly close. If she holds on to him tight enough, maybe nothing, not even the cancer, will have the force to drag her away from him. He cradles her head on his big palm and pulls it closer to his own. She buries her face on his chest. He caresses her hair, his other arm wrapped around her waist.

For something apparently so wrong, this feels just too right. Memories of New Caprica flood his heart triggered by the pressure of her body tucked against his. It has been far too long, not just for him: for both of them. He wonders how he has managed to survive. Her absence could kill him faster than any cylon attack.

"Missed this."

"Me too." He replies.

Silence envelopes them again like a glass bell keeping them safe inside. Just the dim, yellowish light of a lamp in a corner, the everlasting song of Galactica's engines, their breathings, and their hearts that Bill would swear beat in unison.

"I hate myself for putting you through this." She admits quietly.

"Don't. I don't hate you." He rasps.

Bill breathes in a gulp of air, then hesitates. He wants to say something else, to make a point. But he might as well prove it. He slips a finger under her chin and draws her face up.

Her eyes are ablaze when he plunges into them, the green liquid of those pools is on fire. It delights him as much as it terrifies him. His thumb strokes her jaw; his fingers gently hold her in place. He lets his lips come closer to hers.

When she drops her lids, he knows she agrees. She is perfectly fine with what is coming next.

His lips cover hers in a feather- like caress, his touch slowly growing bolder, plunging deeper. She lets him in and it ignites a fire that rushes through his veins and send shivers down his spine. He shuts his eyes to the sensation: he does not want anything else to interfere with this. He wants to drown right here, right now, in a gasp of air shared with her and her only. He infuses breath from his very own lungs into her and with that he hopes he is infusing life too; a cure made of love. He drinks from her and she welcomes it, and grants it, and nurtures him.

Laura lets out a quiet moan which reverberates inside his mouth and suddenly he is getting as much pleasure from his ears as he does from his touch, and he is not fighting, he is not trying to control her because this is about sharing, yet drawing that sound from her throat and her soul is almost too much for him to bear.

When he is about to draw back a soft, cool hand lands on his cheek. It keeps him in place with that gentle force so very hers. Before he realizes it, Laura is willingly giving and not just receiving, and she is taking too, drinking him in. She is participating and sharing the initiative and since she owns all of him anyway, he lets her take whatever she wants, whatever she needs.

The moment their lips part it is their glances that lock: always communicating, never losing contact. Her smirk is so lively; her cheeks show a faint pink blush. It is the glint in her eyes, dark with desire, that ultimately tells him.

Laura is back.

She relaxes against him with a sigh, nestling her head on his shoulder, her hand circling his waist, almost securing him to her, or herself to him; quietly daring the universe to tear them apart. He cradles her in his arms, breathes in her scent. He lets her warmth wash over him, the sweet flood he has so badly longed for.

Bill feels the shaking before the sound actually registers with him.

Laura giggles.

Eyes closed, he smiles into her hair. Gods, he has missed this sound. His breath strokes her forehead as he rumbles.

"What?"

"This could actually be a convenient sleeping arrangement, Admiral."

He smiles wider. As if sensing his approval, or maybe to reinforce her own words or to stop him from doing otherwise, Laura cuddles further against him. He looks down, tilts his head to the side and strains his neck searching for her face. Her lids are shut, her features relaxed, a smile (the true kind) graces her lips.

Bill chuckles.

"So be it."

Thank you for reading! As always, I hope you enjoyed it.