Author's note: Can be read separately.

Sequel to "No Phoenix for Roslin", in which a very ill Laura was offered 'a new body' by the Cylons. She partnered up with Bill and staged a suicide run against the Resurrection Ship, where the Cylons had invited her for the 'procedure'

Time: This is a season 2 universe. The Final Five haven't discovered their true identity yet, D'Anna Biers is only a journalist, Bill is a Commander and Cottle is still called Jack. Bill and Laura were in a (covert) relationship in No Phoenix.

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

With huge thanks to Afrakaday, Obsessive_a101, Bwie66 and Lanalucy for their thorough advice and help to bring this story to new levels.

[Commander's Quarters, six months after No Phoenix ends]

There had been a time when the rustle of her clothes, the quiet murmur of her voice, the gentle touch of her fingers on his skin had formed the comfortable background of his life and he hadn't appreciated it fully. Now, his quarters were empty.

He had found ways to dim the ache and the solitude when he labored through his days leading the crew, shepherding the Fleet, promoting nuggets, wondering if today could be the day that the Cylons would show up again. But in the evenings her absence haunted him.

He was grateful that her sacrifice had bought them a cessation of Cylon hostilities and he was increasingly hopeful that maybe her destruction of the Resurrection Ship had ended the war - that, maybe, the war had been over for six months already.

He poured himself a drink and turned to the weathered buckskin knapsack on the small counter near his couch. He knew what he would find inside: her diaries, her farewell gift to him. He didn't know what they would bring him, if he read them. Would he have her back, if only for a moment? Would the loss be more poignant, more racking? Would her diaries disrupt his image of her or their bond?

So he had waited. He had been circling the bag since she gave it to him half a year ago. He was well-known for his patience and he took pride in it.

This morning, in CIC, when Dee had laughed at a quip Gaeta made, Bill had tried to recall the delighted expression on Laura's face right before she would start giggling. He found that he couldn't. He had frowned, closed his eyes against the distractions around him, and tried to reconstruct it, to piece it together bit by bit, the slant of her neck, the twitch of her lips, the helpless waving of her hands, but it wouldn't come. Saul had been at his side in no time.

He had shrugged Saul off and waited for his shift to end, hoping to find her mirth in the diaries.

The glass an anchor in his hand, he walked over to the satchel and sat down next to it. He swallowed, put the drink down, opened the knapsack with measured movements and peered inside. It smelled like old leather and, faintly, like her. In the dimness inside, a small purse rested on top of several dark hard booklets.

He picked up the green velvet prize as if it was a wounded sparrow and balanced the featherweight package in his hand, before opening it with clumsy fingers. Inside lay an elfin crystal flask. He poured it in his too large hand and caressed the sophisticated lettering with a finger tip. Caprican Dawn. A whiff of her scent drifted up. She was with him, instantly.

She sauntered out of the head, dressed in her negligee, ambling confidently towards him; her eyes alight with mischief and intent. There was no distracting her when she was in a mood like this. Her lovemaking would be quick and fervid, a vortex, skipping the intro, taking them both to a place of murmured encouragements, persuading skin, firing nerve ends and an unreserved mutual release that would leave them both panting, crumpled and content in its wake.

He exhaled. As his breath escaped, he felt how his body had responded with need at only the scent of her. He coaxed his eyes to open and to take in the emptiness of his quarters, to let reality seep back in; his loss more prominent, his resolve more brittle than before.

Carefully, he positioned the flask on top of the soft purse on his table, and tugged the larger satchel close. He unlatched it further and wiggled out the top booklet. Laura's perfume clung to its leathery burgundy cover too, and he stilled, inhaling it, his instincts winning over his judgment as the image of the curve of her hips emerged, her tender smile when she left him at night, and her helpless giggles. He allowed himself to drift. It was all he had left.

The volume opened to a random page. Her handwriting was precise and well-designed, a teacher's hand that had evolved to the refinements of high public office.

One of the downsides of being president, is that it is impossible to hold on to the pretense that anyone cares about what happens to Laura Roslin anymore. I am the road to other people's goals, a means to their ends.
Adama, however, seems to see me, at times.
He has his goals, and he wants to reach them through me, too, but sometimes he seems to see the woman and not the means. Or, at least, he sees the legs and not the presidency.

He snorted quietly, agreeing with her assessment of him in those early days, amused at the playfulness with which she had caught him considering her. He skipped a few pages.

He found a place only a few inches behind me, as if he didn't have the first inkling about personal space, the military philistine. And yet, when my lungs filled with his scent, and his body warmth seeped through my clothes into my back, there was this instant where I stopped being annoyed with him and wanted to turn, trail my finger over his chest, unbutton this fancy dress uniform of his and explore his skin. I must be mad.

If only he had known at the time. He grinned and flipped another handful of pages.

Sex with him is a different thing. Where Richard's lust for power overshadowed his fantasies and the kind of women he invited to join us, Bill, behind his deep-rooted Husker bravado, is a thoughtful lover, careful of the limits that my body inflicts on us both.
Underneath it, I sense that, if we would have met at a different time, he would have gladly followed me in the brasher and more burning plays I have come to enjoy.
Acted out with a real soldier in a real brig some of Richard's scenarios would become, ah, overpowering. Too late for us now.

Bill stared at the page, at her other life.
He wondered what he would have done if he had known this, then. She had been right about his willingness to follow her to new horizons. Having weathered her overriding weakness with her, he knew it had been too late indeed, and he was grateful they had had the time they had.

He skipped to the end.

I have to convince Bill to let me go. The opportunity to destroy the Resurrection Ship cannot be missed. Not much to lose. It is almost time to give it up. But one more night, just one more night to be at home in his rack.
Tomorrow I will set the plan in motion.

He stiffened, their last night a vivid memory, the tenderness, and, later, her stifled anguish and her retreat - the finality of it.

He knew she would have been dead by now, even if she would not have taken out the Resurrection Ship. He knew that leaving Laura her own choice had been the best course of action.
It didn't fill the emptiness.

He picked up his glass, took a deep swig and, as the liquid coursed down and warmed him, he sank back against the couch, opened her journal to the first page and started reading in earnest.

[Three months after Laura's death]

She woke little by little, her memory a daze of fleeting impressions, her mind murky, absorbing in small increments that she was resting in a bath of pleasantly warm fluid, resting comfortably and naked. There was something off about it, something not exactly right, but she felt satisfied and soothed, and a slight glitch in the universe was not enough to bother her now, now that there was no pain.

She moved her toes tentatively – there was not even tenderness. She tried her fingers just to be sure. Nothing. Not even the relentless cold. Laura let out a shivering sigh and relaxed deeper into the balmy bath. Heaven, at last.

"She will come out of it any moment now," a gravely dark voice said too close to her left ear.

"I agree," a similar voice answered from the right.

Something was definitely off. Not enough to bother her, but she slowly crossed an arm over her breasts and brought a hand down to cover her pelvis. It felt better that way in an undefined way.

"Oh, cut it out," the voice on the left said, "It's not as if we haven't seen it all before."

Her eyes snapped open.

Two identical, grey-haired, black-clothed men hovered over her, eying her without reserve.

She gasped. Suddenly feeling her nudity, she sat up straight, covering herself with more vigilance, splashing some of the gooey fluid out of the tub.

One of the elderly men jumped back from the wave, cursing under his breath, but the other, in a sophisticated gesture, held out his hand, offering to help her out of the bath, as if everything was quite as it should be.

"Welcome to the Resurrection Hub, Laura."