Yellowish-gray Caprican sunlight—or what passed for sunlight—barely illuminated the figure standing in the doorway. He looked familiar, but nobody asked "Where do I know you from?" anymore.
He'd been heavier, hair darker…. It came back to her in a rush of bright memories. Commander Adama, from before. From the last free week.
"Bill, right?" No rank, no last names if you could help it. Humanity was on a first name basis now.
Wary eyes lit up. "That's me. And you're…Laura?" He set down his duffle.
"Yeah." She wished she could have mustered more enthusiasm, but it was one of her work days, and she was running on too little sleep, too little food. She lightened her tone, tried to sound welcoming.
"You moving in?"
He nodded. "Radiation sickness finally caught up with me."
Frak. "Are you—" She didn't want to finish. There'd been so much death already. The initial attacks…then the trickle of radiation sickness, and then the cancers. The infections that should have been easy to shrug off, if people had been healthier.
His eyes told her he understood her dread. "No, no, I'm not—I'm okay, but it got my swimmers."
Her eyes dropped to his crotch before she could stop herself.
He shrugged. "A blessing, really. The repop centers are pretty grim."
An understatement, she knew. The Cylons' edict, "You need to start having babies" hadn't been made with human sensibilities in mind. She hadn't seen another pre-menopausal woman in months, other than a few in lines for radiation meds, old before their time.
She waved her hand. "Well, welcome to Sterility Towers."
He snorted at that.
Good. He could still laugh.
"There's a couple of empty spots in my wing." She met his eyes with a direct, steady look. Coy flirting was long gone, nobody had that kind of time.
His look was touched with wistful, painful memories of other times, other places. "I'd like that, if it's okay."
His hand felt like she imagined it would have felt in old days, warm and strong at the back of her waist.
She led him down the dim hall. "We get electricity three hours a day. Rations are pooled by each wing. Labor assignments come once a week."
.
.
.
Later, curled exhausted in his arms, she whispered the rest.
Resistance.
Sabotage.
Hope.
"Feels good, finding you again," he said softly.
"Not how you envisioned retirement, is it?"
He held her closer. "Maybe this part."
She hummed. "You're helping me forget the occupation."
It was a shared lie they both seized with grateful hands.
Still later…
"You ever think about if they'd attacked earlier? Before Galactica became a museum?"
"If they'd come when she was still an active Battlestar? Yeah, sometimes." He cleared his throat. "I'd imagine you were still on board when they hit."
She rested her head on his chest and smiled.
"Really? Tell me more about that."
She drifted off in the arms of his fantasy, dreaming heroic dreams.