Disclaimer: I don't own Laura, Bill or BSG. Ronald D. Moore did until they started a life of their own.
This is for Renee, who gave me the prompt for a story I had already written and with it the motivation to translate and publish it.
The President has passed out.
In the first moment the words seem just an echo, a rumor, just one more sound adding up to the usual noises in CIC when it works in full performance. However, he jolts and then freezes as soon as they reach his ears and sink in. Their meaning knocks him down like an electric shock. It is then, in that very second, that everything else falls silent: the yells, the mess, the explosions, everything stays isolated behind a glass bell.
It has happened.
He should have always known he would never be able to stop it anyway. He has tried, the Gods know he has. He has done nothing else since the moment she told him her disease was back and they understood they could not waste one more drop of a too precious time pretending they were the fleet leaders only. First, Bill convinced her to move in with him with the plausible excuse of having better access to her treatments, higher chances to rest. Then he rewrote the shift schedule up to the point his strict conscience allowed him to with the sole purpose of making sure he would be free in the moments she would most likely need him by her side. Or just in those short breaks when she would get to spend some time alone in his quarters.
Laura's sole presence has turned his quarters into a home. The kind of home he never had before. Opening the hatch every night knowing that he will find her there, that it is her he is coming back to, is a too precious gift for him to believe he deserves it. It represents exactly the kind of hope he had already given up without even noticing. He could live without that hope when he was not aware he lacked it. Now he is no longer able: now Laura exists. Now, everything has a new meaning and it is far too late to ignore it.
And far too soon to lose her.
His existence became a life again the same day their world was wiped out by a massive nuclear attack. Fate is whimsical: Laura was in Galactica when it all had happened. A coincidence which had changed everything else. However, he has always known having Laura by his side was not a gift: it was just a loan. The deep love she shows him without him coming even close to understanding how a woman like her can love him, that love is just a bunch of hours stolen from the claws of fatality in a moment it was looking somewhere else.
The first time they shook hands she already knew she no longer belonged to herself. He did not find out until much later, though. And now, not even putting all his unbreakable determination in this game could he offer Laura the gift of something he does not possess, either. She must know, too, but every night they play the game of forgetting it in each other's arms. The game of making each other forget. She gives him her heart to make up for the short time left.
Other times, she tries to make him accept it. She tries to get him ready. Bill reads the frustration in her beautiful eyes when she understands over and over again that she cannot get him there. He would wish to tell her it is not stubbornness. It is not an irrational negation of the evidence. It is not even the consequence of his certainty that he cannot live without her. Simply put, he just can't believe it. He can't when she rises in front of him with all her trademark, unbelievable resolution, with that smile that neither cancer nor doloxan have managed to wipe out of her face, with such light in her eyes which always has a different sparkle when she looks at him. He can't when it is her who lays her hand down on his arm, who strokes his back, who comforts him with warm words, who gives herself to him every time she lets him take care of her. Who holds him up, pulls him together. He can't, because she would then take all those things away with her when she leaves. And that it simply not possible.
Of course, she has never told him. Even in these months when they have mutually agreed to share life, rack, body and soul intimacy and as much as they can of the time left, she has burdened him with her frailty only on very rare occasions. This is how Laura sees it: being strong while she can is part of her way of loving him. It is her attempt to make up for the feel of betraying him as she slowly slips away.
He sees things more naturally: he loves her. Period. No further explanations, no additional considerations are required. He does not need Laura to defend him from a blow that, both of them know, is also going to devastate him no matter what she does. He does not want light words if they do not tell a true story. He does not want her protection if that means distance. But Laura does not need to say anything. She does not need to confess how badly she needs him: he already knows. He reads her. He reads her with the clairvoyance which only comes from the deep love, trust and a sort of understanding which is slowly, carefully built; the intimate cohabitation, that kind of attentive observation that can only be found in the eyes of someone who loves. He reads her with the precision that can only be acquired when both parts have willingly, voluntarily let down their walls and surrendered.
He reads her as well as he knows she can read him.
He knows. And even if he had not known, he would have done it just the same because he wanted to. He wanted to be with her. To look after her. Even if she had never loved him back, he would have jumped into this instantly had she allowed him to.
Everything. He has tried absolutely everything and it was not enough. In the end, he has not been able to avoid it: Laura was alone in the moment that the crushing blow has hit her. What was bound to happen has just happened and Bill wants to yell at the universe that it is making its biggest mistake.
They have found her unconscious on the floor in his quarters. The private explains himself hastily, stammering, feeling the pressure at the sight of the deep frown between the Admiral's brows, the tension in his features, the threatening glint in his pupils, the thin line his lips have become. No, he cannot tell him if she was breathing. He has just crossed two fellow privates who carried Laura Roslin in their arms making their way along the corridor and towards sickbay as fast as possible.
Bill presses his eyes shut. He tries to stay focused, to keep it together under the flood of pain which threatens to make him fall apart. He can't, though. He sees her behind his closed lids. He sees her as she has just been described to him: lying on the floor, unconscious, fragile, vulnerable. Alone. Her body has finally betrayed the otherworldly strength of her soul. Not her entire body but the worst part of it, is winning the war. He is losing the only war he cannot bear losing. The one which will kill him for good. Without one single bullet.
He opens his eyes. He knows he cannot leave. He cannot get out of CIC right now. Not, at least until Saul comes back from the hangar deck. With shaking hands he smoothes his uniform, locks his shoulders and lifts his chin hoping those gestures will inoculate into his soul a composure he no longer feels, a determination which has deserted him. Useless. The dradis screen shows Laura's face only. Green, luminous eyes, rosy cheeks, smiling lips, ethereal waves of an auburn hair he has learned not to miss because he loves her just like she is, because he loves her with everything she brings. Despite everything she loses. That Laura who is looking at him and only him right now from all the screens around is a Laura he has not seen for a long time. A Laura he will never see again. The best Laura, full of life and health. That woman who fought for humanity's survival without losing her smile and still had enough strength to undo him with her proximity, her warmth, her sole presence. That version of Laura existed only briefly, in a time when she did not belong to him yet. Her heart did, just as his heart belonged to her already. But everything was still subtle, unspoken, a mutual confirmation was still pending. And all, he regrets, just because it took him too long to make up his mind. A sharp pain pierces his chest: it is the certitude of lost time.
If Saul does not come back really soon, he will not be on time to see this Laura, either. This Laura who is so different and yet so very her, more herself than ever: this is what happens as death comes closer. As the flesh over her bones becomes thinner and thinner, this Laura sees herself reduced to the essential: her love for him. She has known how to make him feel it over the last two months. If his life is at stake she can easily forget her mission, rise over her own ashes with the sheer force of her instinct and her ire and is ready to wipe out humanity with no second thoughts even before cancer ends her.
However, when the hour has been upon her, Laura was alone. He was not by her side. He does not dare to wonder how long she might have been unconscious, lying down on his carpet until someone has found her. Usually, nobody enters his quarters while he is away, especially not now that he has expressly ordered everyone not to disturb her. In the middle of the mess caused by Hera's abduction, it may have been hours.
And no, he cannot leave CIC yet, but his entire body is screaming that he is not where he should be. He feels the tension on his limbs. They want to run, take him away from there as soon as possible and carry him to the only place where he should be right now: by Laura's bed. He checks his watch, looks around, his hands become fists so tightly shut that his knuckles turn white. The Admiral understands he needs to let Bill go to her. Run to her. This Bill right here is useless. This Bill just sees Laura's limp body, hears her voice only, is drowning in remorse because he was taking care of his ship, his other love, when Laura, the most important of the two, needed him more than ever. This Bill can only think of the loneliness of the woman he loves and his own urge to see her, hold her, talk to her. Before it is too late.
Maybe it is too late already.
Even worse: maybe it is not too late yet but it will be in a couple of seconds. Or in ten. Or in a minute. Saul does not come back and Bill imagines Laura passed out on a gurney. Grief makes him want to cry out loud and he immediately pushes that vision away. He replaces it with another vision where she is awake: pale and exhausted, but awake. No. He prefers her asleep: he does not want her to wake up until he can be with her. He cannot stand the thought of Laura opening her eyes just to find out she is alone and knowing that, if she closes her eyes once more, she might never open them again. He cannot bear the idea of her not waking up once he is there, either. He does not know which of the two options is more harrowing.
He will never be ready to lose her.
He might have lost her already.
He locks his chin to his chest and holds back the scream of his soul slit open.
...-...-...-...-...-...-...-...-...-...-...-...-...-...-...-...-...-...-...-...-...-...-...-...-...-...-...-...-...-...-...-...-...-...-...-...-...-...-...-...-...-...-...-...-...-...-...-...-...
The quietness of sickbay is a sharp contrast with the maelstrom in CIC. The smell of meds and disinfectant, the regular beeps of dozens of monitors and devices, the muffled voices of the nurses invade his senses one moment before his hand pushes aside the thick plastic curtain and his anxious eyes peek in.
She is not in any of the beds he can see from the entrance. Confusion and impatience make his features contract as he looks around a second time, more slowly, scanning the faces of the beds' occupants. She is not there. She is not there and the worry eating him up alive makes it really hard for him to keep a straight and calm stance.
A few familiar steps approach him from behind. Before he turns around, he hears the greeting.
"Admiral. I was expecting you. This way, please."
Bill half spins on his heels and stares at him, expectant. Cottle walks past him without bothering to stop and tilts his head as an invitation for him to follow. Grateful and relieved, Bill complies. It is usually him who delivers the orders, not the one ordered around, but everything is upside down now in front if this doctor who has Laura's fate, and his along with hers, in his hands. He lets the curtain fall in place again behind him and walks determinedly after Cottle.
Now he knows she is still alive: Cottle's attitude reveals him that much. He knows he will be by her side in just a few seconds. He knows that no device, no doctor, no test will give him more accurate information about Laura's state than his own eyes when they look at her. Than her eyes, if they ever look at him again. However, he is too eager to know. He cannot help himself and he asks the question.
"How is she, doc?"
Cottle halts. He grunts softly, his eyes piercing the deck, reflecting for a second. Then he looks up at Bill again with a matter-of-fact expression painted in his features.
"Stable. That's all I can say. I have had some tests done but I don't think we'll find anything different: I ran the last battery of tests only two weeks ago. In any case…"
Cottle trails off. He cannot tell if it is because of the flash of pain crossing the Admiral's face or because his hand has risen with the unmistakable purpose of interrupting him. He is allowed to provide no further information. Bill knows the rest. He does not need to be reminded of it. He cannot stand hearing those words aloud.
The doctor nods and resumes the walk in silence. The two men slide towards the back end of sickbay, a more discreet area which Bill has never had much chance to visit so far. He was there only when he was fighting for his own life, his chest and gut ripped in two. He cannot remember it now, though. Every time he has been sitting alongside Laura during her treatments they have placed her in the general, wider, open area. Distressed, Bill wonders why this change. He wonders if Cottle has brought Laura to this more secure zone thinking of her wellbeing and her privacy (in Bill's privacy, too, since the doctor has taken for granted he would come as soon as he could) or if he has done so because he would rather keep what his going on with Laura from everyone else's eyes. There are things a doctor needs to prevent other patients from seeing.
A few more steps and Bill makes up the form of an ample, rectangular cubicle between four thick, grey curtain walls which hang from a metal structure fixed to the ceiling and fall onto the floor. Here, the doctor stops. He turns around and their eyes lock: Cottle hopes Bill understands his silent warning. Then, no words spoken, he brushes the curtain aside and lets him in.
From the foot of the bed, Cottle looks at Laura for an instant. Then he checks the screen of the monitor translating her heartbeats into regular peaks and valleys. Last, he looks at Bill, scrutinizing his reaction, fearing what he already knows he is going to see. As seasoned as the doctor is in this kind of battles, there are still scenes so hard to see that you never grow accustomed to them, no matter if they keep happening over and over again in front of your eyes. One is a person before being a doctor. And goodbyes are always goodbyes. In cases such as this one, goodbyes start far before the sick person is actually gone.
The abrupt change that has taken place in the Admiral's expression in just a second takes his breath away. The anxiety that consumed him has subsided, giving way to a grin of sheer, piercing pain. Those pupils burned with impatience as he followed him through sickbay but now there is only tenderness spilling out of his eyes, a tangible tenderness Cottle can even feel, even touch from where he is standing. Bill's sound, resolute strides as he followed him had hit the deck like those of a soldier in a squad, but now he comes around the foot of the bed as silently as if he was made of air. Those shoulders which appeared tense, rigid like rocks when Cottle had approached him from behind lean down gently now to allow his hands take hers, so delicate the gesture that it hurts to watch.
Bill has already forgotten he is there. Cottle takes one step back, lets the curtain fall and leaves quietly. Whatever happens from this moment on is none of his business. After all he has just seen, he wonders if maybe the strength of that love can operate the miracle that the doloxan did not.
Bill does not even hear him leaving. He does not notice his footsteps getting away or the gentle sweep of the curtain falling in place again leaving him, at last, alone with Laura. All he sees is the woman of his life laying unconscious on the bed. Without releasing her hand, he outstretches his other arm to get a chair. He brings it as close as possible to the bed head and sits down in silence.
Laura would look asleep if it were not because the paleness of her skin, the dark shadows under her eyes, the chaps on her lips, reveal how advanced her disease is. Lying there with her eyes closed, covered with the sheet up to her armpits, a scarf on her head and those fine tubes sneaking into her nostrils like two intruder snakes, she is the sheer image of vulnerability. She is everything she manages to make Bill forget about when she is awake, with all her warmth and her willpower. Bill exhales a ragged sigh. He does not take his eyes off her for a long time. He keeps them fixed on her face as if he would believe his glance can have some kind of miraculous effect on her, as if he is afraid of blinking and missing the precise second of her awakening.
If she ever wakes up.
I haven't brought any book, he mutters, realizing how absurd that thought is. He will be lucky if she wakes up at some point. He keeps Laura's hand in his and he could swear it is even tinier than it was only yesterday, only this very morning. This hand is literally slipping away between his fingers and there is nothing he can do to keep it. After that hand, all of her follows.
Bill wonders how many things he has lost already. How much of everything Laura is has already been relegated to the past forever. He thinks of that gorgeous auburn hair in which he has tangled his fingers much less times than he would have liked to, than he would have managed to if he had not been so stupid to keep the distance between them for years for the sake of their responsibilities. He remembers their work meetings and how, in a certain moment, without even noticing, he had started to long for them with secret impatience before she showed up, and go over every detail of them in his mind after she left. In those memories he included the feelings, the sidelong glances, the casual brush of their hands, the intensity of her gaze, the brightness of her smile, much more than the endless lists of facts and figures, the thick reports, or the documents awaiting their signatures. He thinks of the front he established with her for the defense and protection of humanity. That front was once invincible. Now, with half its forces out of combat and the other half heartbroken, that front is nothing but dust.
Suddenly, he realizes that he might have already lost everything else, too. Maybe he has already lost forever her presence in his quarters, which he could feel like an aura even before he spotted her, as if the lights were more welcoming, the smells sweeter, the colors warmer: such familiar environment announcing him a promise of company and intimacy. Maybe he has already lost her smile, her way of looking. And if he gets to see them again, they will not be the same. Her eyes will have lost their sparkle, their strength. Her lips will no longer curve upwards as they used to, revealing that tempting dimple in the corner. Her voice will not be her voice anymore. Its rich quality will be gone and he will not be able to stop it from fading away in his memory even before she leaves him. If Laura's hand ever lays down on his arm again, it will be just an echo of the energy her sole touch used to pass on to him.
However, even if they are no longer her eyes, her voice, her touch, he wants them back. All of them. He craves the broken voice, the opaque glance, the tired lips, the cold hand. He wants one last time. Just one last time. He has always hoped for her recovery, he has always prayed for a miracle from those gods he does not believe in or the science which was able to save her in the last second during the first assault of the disease. But now, sitting by her bed, before a Laura who does not see him, does not hear him, cannot touch him, who does not even know he is there, both a painful uncertainty and the most painful of certainties washing over him, he does not ask for more: just one last moment with her.
A gentle tap on the mattress, right under his head, brings him back to reality. He looks down: a tear. Bill lifts a hand to his cheek and finds out that salty drop which has just rolled down his cheek and bounced on the sheet is not the only one he has shed. He brushes away the wetness with the back of his hand in rage, in desperation. It is useless: a fresh tide of tears spills over his lids as if the sole sight of his own weeping had turned it into something irrepressible. His features contract, his shoulders shake, his back trembles as he refuses to look away from Laura's idle face.
Slowly, he lets his head fall down on the mattress. His sobs subside gradually and his breath calms down. He falls asleep.
Not even now does he release her hand.
When he wakes up, a sharp pain pierces his neck. He has no clue as to what time it must be. The mental confusion which follows sleep suddenly lifts as soon as he is aware of where he is. He gets upright with an abrupt move which makes his stiff back creak. Instinctively, he brings a hand to the sore spot. As soon as he does, Laura's fingers slip from his hand and fall gently on the mattress. Carefully, he picks them up again.
He loses himself in her sight, wondering if she has opened her eyes at some point while he slept and has not wanted to disturb him. On the one side, he curses himself for having missed it. On the other side, nothing makes him happier than the thought that Laura has woken up to him right there, asleep by her side.
One second later, Bill knows it has not happened yet.
He knows when he sees her blink and open her eyes slowly, as if that simple gesture was too much of an effort already. He knows when she lets out a quiet moan and tries to focus her sight on the objects around with a disoriented look. He knows when he sees her remember and, almost immediately, close her eyes again with a painful grin and an exhausted sigh.
He, on the contrary, could not be more awake. His heartbeats race inside his chest, adrenaline runs like a flood through his entire body which was numb just a second ago. He needs to muster all of his willpower to hold back a cry of relief, to keep himself pulled together.
Laura has not seen him yet. In her short and dumb scan of her surroundings she has not even noticed his presence. Bill presses her hand gently.
"Hey."
Now she does. She tilts her head on the pillow in the direction of his voice and opens her eyes again. When she finally sees him, Bill could swear the smile spreading on her lips is almost the same as always. He feels his own beating on his lips, irrepressible. In Laura's pupils he can read his own emotion like a mirror. Her happiness for being back and finding him there. It seems to him that all the energy of the universe is condensed on this point, on this precise moment of her awakening. The precise moment when they are together again, acknowledging each other's presence.
One last moment. He only asked for this. Now that he has it, he suddenly wants more. He wants to see her healthy. He wants her suffering to end. He wants not to lose her. He wants to leave when she does, just like they have woken up now, almost in unison.
"I passed out." She explains unnecessarily.
Her voice is just a dry whisper and is tinged with regret and apology. Bill nods.
"I know. How are you feeling?"
Laura smirks and shrugs.
"Drained."
Bill lifts her hand to his lips and kisses it, lingering, closing his eyes with force at the contact. She must have closed her own eyes too because the moment he looks at her again he sees her open them. This time, the smile she gives him spreads to her eyes too. Bill sees her pupils dance for a second and instantly remembers New Caprica and a night spent under the stars. These are her pupils, her jade eyes. Tired, but so undoubtedly hers.
"You're here." She murmurs.
She says it acknowledging the fact, letting it sink in and at the same time as if she had trouble believing it. She says it like a prayer, with a tremulous gratitude which translates, despite her, her abandon and her need. Guilt stabs Bill in the chest when he thinks of how long it has taken him to come by her side.
He will not leave. Not anymore. He will stay right here. He will sleep with her, sitting on the chair by her side. Holding her hand. Every night, if that is what it takes.
"I love you."
She knows. She knows it full well. She has known for a long time, long before he summoned up the courage to act on those feelings. It does not stop the tears from invading her eyes, though. She parts her lips but can say nothing and Bill does not mind because he knows what she was going to say. Laura was going to echo his words.
"Have you brought any book?" she asks once her emotions let her.
He looks at her, regretful. He shakes his head on the negative.
"Do you want me to go get one?"
"No. I'd rather have you here."
Simple as that. She says so with dignity, with serenity. As her end comes closer, she is brought down to the essentials. She has Bill: she needs nothing else. He wraps her hand in both of his own. If only he could protect her as easily as he can warm up that hand.
"I will always be here."
She grins and nods.
"Me too."
"Laura…"
His voice breaks and drowns inside his throat. He can never let his guard down with her. Bill knows this but sometimes he still forgets. He knows her better than anyone but sometimes he still believes he can foresee her reactions. Sometimes he thinks he can just come before her and say whatever he wants to say without expecting that an acute remark from her will catch him off-guard. He does not hold back a sob. He does not avert his eyes. He does not stop smiling back at her from behind the water his eyelids barely contain. The same thing is going on within her eyes.
Laura tries to sit up but it is too much of an effort. So she outstretches her arms to him in a silent invitation. He gets up from the chair, gets closer to the edge of the bed and leans over her. She lays down her palms on his cheeks. Her fingertips brush his tears from his skin lovingly, much more delicately than he usually treats himself. Her eyes are still green and shed light when she smiles at him. Her lips smile at him too. The dimple on her cheek is still there. Faint, but there.
Then, she slips her fingers on the back of his neck and pulls him gently. He lays his fists down on the mattress to support his weight and lets her guide him. He lets this woman lead him. As he has always done, even back then, when they were not aware of being in love with each other yet. This is what he has always done, and it brought him here: following her was worth it.
Bill lets Laura bring him to her until their lips meet. She revels in the kiss with an unexpected intensity. She makes this kiss deliberately long until she feels him welcoming it without any second thoughts. Until she is certain he will be able to remember it precisely, to feel her taste whenever he needs it. Bill knows what she is doing. He also knows she does not need to do this, not really: even if the details fade away in his memory, he will always remember her. He will always love her. He will always carry her with him. No man can pull apart the most vital part of himself just like that.
Bill draws back slowly. He casts a sidelong glance at the bed, trying to decide if there is enough space beside her for him to sit on the mattress without making her uncomfortable. If he can, he wants to be even closer to Laura. She guesses his intentions. Smiling, she pats the mattress beside her, encouraging him to do what he cannot bring himself to suggest. She is too weak to move and give up more room to him. This will have to do. Bill shifts his weight and sits carefully on the edge, facing her.
This is much better. Sitting right there he can outstretch an arm over her body, take both of her hands at the same time, stroke her face with his fingertips. He does so without a doubt, looking at her as if it was the first time he sees her. He knows very well he did not look at her like this the first time he saw her. Not even close to this. Now he cannot understand how it took him so long to see it.
To really see her.
To see himself.
Laura looks at him silently with a lively, almost mischievous expression. Bill does not dare to smile: he knows she is up to something. Over the last years he has learned to brace himself when he sees this specific expression. His brows arch in a silent question.
"Did you think you would not see me again?"
He does not answer. He cannot see what her almost amused expression has to do with such a ruthless comment. Yes, as a matter of fact that is exactly what I thought. And it is not funny. Not at all. Bill avoids her eyes and says nothing. He knows that, with her, not answering is just another sort of answer.
"Bill."
He feels her squeezing his hand. The timbre of her voice has shifted. But he cannot look back at her. Not now. Not yet. Not when he knows what she is about to say once more: that he needs to accept it. That he needs to let go. He does not want to. He can't. Laura should know that better than anyone else. She should have figured out he is not going to change at this stage. That she is ready to leave does not mean he can come to terms with it. The second she finally releases all of the weight she carries, that same weight will crush him dead. It will bury him alive. It is not fair.
It is not her fault, either.
Suddenly, Bill needs to hear her say she wants to stay. It is selfish to ask her to keep fighting but he needs to know she would like to do her best to stay by his side.
"Bill."
Her voice has sounded serious now. She pulls at his hand to emphasize her calling. To catch his attention. To make him confront her gaze.
"I'm not mocking you, Bill. You know I'd never do that. It's just that… I know I'm not so close to the end yet. I'm close, but I still have a few more beautiful moments to live. With you. And I know" she pauses to catch her breath. "I know you will be by my side when it happens."
Bill shakes his head, insecure. Memories of himself in CIC a few hours earlier invade his mind. He relives the uncertainty, the angst, the guilt, the hopelessness. He knows too well what Laura passing out means: it means she has gone one step further on the way which leads her away from him. She has completed a new stage. She has attended the preview of what is to come. And he wants to believe her more than anything in the world but he knows he was not by her side in that moment, the most death- like moment they have lived so far.
Part of him wants to berate her calm, wants to blame her for the lightness with which she faces this. He wonders if her attitude is genuine or faked, if she really experiences that peace before her impending death or it is just a façade to protect him. If she has given up the fight or just changed tactics. He wonders if she has an ace up the sleeve, as she had so many times before. He wonders if she knows something he is oblivious to.
He should know with just a look at her but right now he cannot read her. He cannot guess her. His own turbulent emotions cloud his perception as if the air they were sharing had become a dense fog. He wonders if it would really be easier to let her go seeing her fight and lose, seeing her cry and suffer and lose herself in the process, seeing her cling with her nails and her teeth to a life which abandons her.
To him, who will never abandon her.
And it is happening. What he fears most is happening right here, right now: in front of her in this very second, minutes after he got her back, he feels he is losing her in a way which is somehow worse than death. He feels the distance which creates the lack of understanding. The abyss between them now that their (his) pain is bigger than their ability to understand each other. He does not want this. Not now. Not in this moment which could very well be his last chance to talk to her.
When he looks back at her, he sees her eyelids half- closed. She is biting her lower lip as in deep reflection. Her cheeks have turned rosy as if the effort of thinking would warm her from the inside. A few seconds later, she reaches out and lays her hand on his knee. Just as he had expected, it is a faint echo, barely a feather, a dry autumn leave which does not even rustle. However… however, the energy still flows. It flows, just like before. Like it has always done between them. Like it did each and every time she reproduced this gesture over the last four years.
Despite her condition, Laura does not seem to notice the painful doubt beating between them. Her judgement, unlike Bill's, does not seem clouded in the slightest. At least, that is what her reply shows.
"Four years ago I lost everything, Bill. All of us lost a lot, but I was left with literally nothing. Nothing besides a horrible disease, an overwhelming responsibility I had never asked for and a fate which claimed for my death. I have always been certain there would be nothing left for me at the end of this journey. All I have done, I've done it in the best interest of the fleet. I've done it to guide the people, to protect them".
"I know."
Bill does not understand why she is explaining all this to him. He already knows. She should know he knows. He wonders what she is up to. He shifts his body slightly and stares back at her with dark eyes, waiting for her to go on.
"When I took over the presidency I decided the only thing I could afford, the only thing I could give myself was to accept this fate. Make it mine, devote myself to it. It would allow me to have something to fight for and die in peace when the moment would come."
Her voice falters a little. Bill swallows the lump in his throat.
"But when we arrived at Earth, everything was blown to hell. I was going to die just the same but it would be of no use for anyone. The grief devastated me. My faith, my identity, the meaning of my entire sacrifice. Everything. Everything, except this." She motions with her arm drawing a circle which includes them both. "In you I found something I had lost all hope of finding long ago. This I already knew. But when we set out feet on Earth and everything else disappeared, you still shone. You shone even brighter. I know what the most precious thing in my life is. And I have it by my side."
Bill is speechless. He can just stare back at her.
"This is why I have peace, Bill. This is why I can still smile and joke. It's not that I want to leave. It's not that I don't care about you being left alone, being left behind. It's not that I have given up. It's just that… I have much more than I never thought possible. I have the best."
There she is. He wanted her back, so there she is. This is Laura, as always, pulling his pieces back together again from a bed in life station. She has managed to rebuild him, to paint for him the picture that he could not figure out minutes earlier. Reading his soul and putting into words all those feelings Bill was having a hard time deciphering. Suddenly, the fog has cleared out. There are no monitors, no tubes, either. He does not even hear that unyielding clock inside his heart which carries the countdown of the seconds she has left.
There is nothing else when he leans over, gently slides his arms around Laura's torso and brings her up from the mattress using a minimal strength: the amount of strength she no longer possesses. There is nothing else when he holds her tight against his chest and no, just for this one time he does not fear she might break. There is nothing else when he feels her lean arms circling his back, her fists clinging to his jacket, her warm breath on his neck. There is nothing else when she whispers in his ear, voice thick with water.
"I'm sorry, Bill. I'm so sorry. I'd never hurt you. I wish I could stay."
His only response is to hold her even tighter.
He has one last question. Just one. He believes she will forgive him for asking.
"Then why did you give up on your treatments, Laura?"
She sighs against his shoulder.
"Because it dragged me away from you. It won't heal me, not anymore. It's just buying me time. I don't want any more time at the expense of not being myself. At the expense of not being able to feel you, smile at you, want you. At the expense of being too weak for anything. I've got you. I don't want to miss a single thing. I want to be awake until the very end."
And then he hears her say it.
"I love you."
Her chocked sob drowns in his own as he rocks them back and forth.
He cannot blame her for being ready to leave.
He cannot blame himself for wanting to leave with her.
As always, I hope you liked it! And as always, reviews are welcome. Thank you!