A/N BSG is not mine. Please don't sue me, I'm so broke I can't pay attention.
Don't cry for me, it's almost done. It's just what I've longed to do. Don't cry for me, there is no pain as great as my love for you. --Author Unknown
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He can almost see the pain upon her face. Usually she can hide it entirely behind that serene expression that thinly veils the line, obscuring the truth of pain. Not today.
Doc Cottle must see it as well, for he makes a minute adjustment to the IV drip. "Young lady, I'm afraid you've hit your limit on the morpha dosage," Cottle informs her in his gravelly voice, putting his cigarette back into his mouth. It's not lit. That explains more than anything else how bad things are.
Laura's eyes are closed, and her face is turned toward the porthole closest to her bed. One shoulder lifts in the tiniest of shrugs. "It's not so bad today," she whispers, a slight smile curving her lips.
A grunt escapes the Chief Medical Officer, and he responds, "You're as lousy a liar as you are a salesman." He gathers his supplies and gives the other man in the room in the room a brusque nod, "Admiral." Cottle's eyes make contact with Bill Adama's for a fraction of a second before sliding away as he gruffly states, "I'm leaving you two lovebirds alone and heading back to the Galactica."
It's the first time since they boarded the Colonial One more than an hour earlier that someone's given Bill anything even remotely resembling a straight look, and as brief as it was, it conveys more than he is willing, no, more than he is ready to know. But then, he knows he'll never be ready. His dark blue eyes close briefly before reopening, and he lingers there by the door, watching her doze.
He loves watching her sleep.
"Admiral, when you're finished ogling me, feel free to have a seat." Alright, she isn't dozing, but her eyes remained closed.
He coughs discreetly as though he's been caught in the act, but his eyes are bright with amusement. "Apologies, Madame President. Force of habit." He moves across the room and sits beside her, taking her hand in his. Gently, now. She's so delicately thin, so fragile now that he is positive that Scorpia's finest blown glass would have more substance to it.
Silence reigns for a long moment, and a sigh of relief escapes her as she squeezes his hand. "We did it, Bill." Her eyes open, still luminous despite her failing health, and focus on the blue, white, green and brown world spinning slowly in space just beyond her porthole. He loves her eyes.
"No." He manages her to surprise her with that reply, and slowly, for she does everything slowly nowdays, she turns her head to regard him, dark mahogany eyebrows arching clear to her hairline. "You did it, Laura."
She dimples at that, showing him the dazzling full on smile that he can't help but respond in kind to, her hazel eyes virtually glowing now. "Now, Admiral, I'm fairly certain that there's a few thousand people in this fleet who might object to the notion that I alone got us to Earth." He loves when she gives him that smile.
That remark earns her his fiercest scowl but his eyes brim with laughter as he demands, "Who? Tell me their names, Madame President and I'll throw them in the brig! Or better yet, out an airlock!"
Giggles escape her, but the rapid involuntary movement of her chest quickly changes them into gasps of pain. Her eyes close and her face grows taut, back arching as she struggles to regain control, her grip on his hand tightening to the point that her knuckles have turned white.
The pain of her nails digging into his hand is his penance. He hates himself for that, for being selfish enough to want to see that smile, to hear that laugh, and that he's caused her pain in the process. All he can do is wait for the pain to subside. Helplessly. He hates that as well. He closes his eyes to assuage his guilt, and a tear escapes to roll down his rugged face.
It takes a few minutes for her to recover completely, and even then her breath is shallow, carefully forced in and out. She tugs at her hand in his, but he's unwilling to let it go, and instead lifts it to his mouth and brushes a kiss across the back of it before meeting her eyes across the bed.
Instead of letting him lower it again, she twists her hand in his, and lightly trails fingertips to follow the tear's path downward to his jaw line. "Don't cry for me," she sighs, carefully, keeping the pain in her treacherous body in check enough to talk. "It's almost done." She turns her head to look from him to that glorious planet outside her porthole. Her lips quaver but she is smiling again, with relief.
He swallows a broken sob at that, and it catches in his throat. His eyes tear up even more. He knows her. He's known for months that the only thing that has kept her alive this long is her sheer willpower and determination to the Fleet all the way through until they reached Earth. And now they have. Her duty is complete. This is what she's been waiting for, what she's longed to do from the moment she first took her oath as President of the Twelve Colonies.
"It's not done," he manages to choke out hoarsely, and now her hand is clasped between both of his as he rests his elbows on his knees. His breath tickles her fingers and he bows his head over her hand. "You've still got a lot to do around here."
She's on the verge of answering when another spasm of pain overtakes her, and her hand clenches tight around his once more. Her grip on his hand through this series of pained convulsions is far weaker than it was a few minutes ago. She's growing tired. This time, he forces himself to watch as she writhes in agony, so he can see what he is forcing her to endure by asking… no, by begging her to stay. He's being selfish again, and knows it, and can't help himself. He doesn't want to lose her.
An eternity later, her body is finally relaxing as the pain temporarily releases her. "That…. That wasn't so bad.," she breathes, her voice a mere trace of sound. She inhales and exhales slowly, exhausted.
He tenderly kisses her hand again. "Doc Cottle was right. You are a lousy liar," he huskily informs her with the barest hint of a smile at the tease.
She sniffs, mustering up her haughtiest Presidential glare, lifts her chin just enough to sell it, giving him that stern look. He loves when she glares at him like that. Her stern look rapidly melts into that broad dimpled smile again, but her eyes are drooping and she is fading fast, but the smile still lingers around her lips as she drifts off to sleep.
He loves to watch her sleep.