Disclaimer: Battlestar Galactica belongs to Ronald D. Moore and the Sci-Fi channel.
Chapter 4: I keep your photograph and I know it serves me well
Roslin had finished dinner with one of the Virgonese representatives when Tory told her that she had a meeting with the Board of Education. "Is there a particular reason that they're holding it so late?"
Tory shrugged. "I suppose they wanted to wait until school was out. The school schedule has two shifts that overlap. The later shift would have just ended."
Standing, Laura shook her head. "No Tory, I'm not going to this. I am done for today."
"But ma'am, you have to keep up appearances," Tory argued.
"Right now I have to get back to Bill. I should never have left him alone," Laura volleyed.
The aide sighed. "I'll reschedule with them."
"Thank you," the older woman responded before darting over to the Raptor.
She found the admiral's quarters unlocked and stepped inside quietly. The desk caught her eye as papers littered it like a forest floor in a disorganized mess. She sighed and walked over to it, quickly rearranging the papers into piles. We'll sort through those later, she told herself. Then she saw the Ambrosia sitting on the coffee table. The amount of liquid had been diminished by almost half. She looked around the living room, not seeing him. Wherever he is, he's probably a little drunk.
As she turned her gaze to the floor, she spotted a broken picture frame lying between the coffee table and the desk. Carefully she picked it up, letting the loose glass fall into the wastebasket. The frame itself had split at two of the corners, as if that was where it had landed. When she saw the picture, a few stray tears landed on her cheeks. It was of a much younger Bill Adama and two boys, who could be no other children except for his sons. Oh Bill, what have you done? She swallowed and set the picture, as well as the damaged frame, back on the desk.
The sleeping area was vacant, but just as she was about to conclude that he had gone elsewhere, she heard the sound of water running, emanating from the bathroom. She raced over and flicked on the light switch. She could see him washing off his left hand, jacket unbuttoned. Looking just beyond him, she saw the mirror. From a point of impact, it splintered out like the roots of a tree, only as she made the comparison in her mind, she acknowledged that this tree was dying. It was him. And he was dying inside, a little piece of him at a time.
"Bill," she said softly, walking over to him. "Let me get that."
She checked a few drawers and quickly found the gauze. Then she gently patched the cuts on his hand with salve before wrapping the hand. She brushed her thumb over the top of it before releasing his hand to him. He leaned forward, propping himself up with his good hand. She lightly touched his back. The smell of Ambrosia lingered around him like a small cloud, but she was more concerned with the slump of his shoulders and the empty look in his eyes than the alcohol.
"He's gone, Laura," Bill stated hoarsely as an onslaught of tears threatened to overwhelm him. "My son is dead."
I wish 'I'm sorry' didn't sound so hollow. "I know, Bill. Saul brought me to the morgue," Laura mentioned, looping her arms around his neck, as if to hold him together.
The arm he was using to hold himself up was shaking slightly. "I don't know what to do. I can't even look at his picture. Why keep going anymore?"
She turned so that both of her hands made their way to his face. "You're leading the people to Earth."
He shook his head, stepping past her, pausing to lean against the doorframe of the bathroom. "That's your job."
"No, that's our job," she corrected.
Staggering to the bed, he sank down onto it, crumpled forward, and placed his head in his hands. "I can't do it anymore."
She had expected this, a collapse of sorts. In front of her sat the ruins of a man, not only a leader, but a man who had found a special place in her heart. His form shook with sobs, each like an earthquake sending cracks up through the building's structure. Slipping out of her shoes, she curled up next to him, her tears leaking out as well while she grasped his left arm and pressed herself closer to him.
"Bill, listen to me. No matter what, the fleet still needs you. But I didn't come here to talk you back into your job. I came here so that you know I'm right here. And I intend to stay right here as long as it takes for you to be able to stand again," she explained.
"Laura, you don't have to-"
"Later. We'll talk more later. Right now you're going to bed," she informed him, standing to remove his jacket. He complied, being still sober enough to untie his boots. She removed them as he lied down on his side. "Sleep."
Reaching his linen closet, she found an extra blanket and brought it over to the couch, deciding to stay the night in case he needed something. She sat down on the couch and glanced down, realizing that she still wore her blouse and skirt. I can't sleep in these. Maybe he won't mind if I borrow a pair of sweats, she concluded, heading over to his dresser. Having spent time living with him before, she had figured out basically where everything was. She headed into the bathroom and changed.
"Why is the universe letting everything that he loves die?" she wondered aloud. Before leaving the bathroom, she spotted his razor. He wouldn't, would he? I'd better ere on the side of caution, she decided, hiding the razor in a drawer. She hid a few more sharp objects before draping her other clothes over the desk chair and setting her wig aside. Seeing the mess of files again, she felt the need to help him as much as possible and decided to sort the files. Then she curled up on the couch to sleep half an hour later.
Some time in the morning she heard the sound of someone retching. Blinking as she sat up, the next sound that reached her ears was gargling before more water running. She hastily grabbed her wig and secured it in place. The last thing she wanted was for him to see the specter of death that followed her.
Boots, pants, undershirts, aside from his uniform jacket, he looked as though he was preparing to go to work, despite having a slight hangover. "This is no way to start a morning. Where is the frakking razor? How is a man supposed to shave without a razor?" he growled.
Clearing her throat, she entered the bathroom. "I moved it."
He raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
Pulling one of the drawers under the bathroom counter open, she handed him the razor. "I hid other sharp objects too." She paused as he lathered the shaving cream on his face. "Bill, when I looked into your eyes yesterday, I saw death looking back and it scared me. I didn't want you to- to do something you couldn't take back."
She listened to the soft scrape of the razor against his skin as he spoke. "First off, men don't usually go for razors. And second, despite my personal life, I'm still the admiral of this fleet. Too many lives depend on me to do that job. Saul hasn't been himself lately and I'd rather not dump everything in his lap like that."
And thirdly, I need you, her mind supplied. She studied him, realizing that despite the intense pain he was in, he had put himself in automatic mode for the morning. He'll be able to hold it together, at least until the service, she reassured herself. "They'll want a service."
He stopped rinsing off the razor to look at her reflection. "I know."
"I'll help you. We'll work through it together," she added.
Setting the razor back in its usual place, he turned to face her. "I should thank you for last night," he began, glancing down at his bandaged left hand. "I take it this was your handiwork?"
She nodded, also looking at the hand. I guess he was more drunk than I realized. Somehow it stood as a metaphor for the previous evening. She had come to help him and hold him together. "It was nothing."
"That's not true. You didn't have to come back. The fact that you came to see me at all yesterday was comforting, but then you stuck around. Thank you," he conveyed.
"You're welcome," she said with a warm smile.
"And you really didn't have to stay the night, though that pair of sweats looks better on you than it ever did on me," he mentioned wryly.
She glanced at her reflection in the mirror and giggled. "I didn't want to sleep in my suit, so I didn't think you'd mind if I borrowed a few things. I was worried about you, so I stayed in case you needed anything."
"Well then Madame President, I suggest you hop into the shower before your aide shows up and asks why you're not ready," he advised, stepping out of the bathroom.
Grabbing her clothes from the previous day, she sashayed passed him, saying "Yes sir. Okay sir. Anything you say, sir."
He shook his head and she turned to see him grinning at her. "I'll order up some coffee."
"Sounds good," she responded. As she prepared for her shower, she knew that while things were far from okay, he was at least willing to let her help.
(My thanks to Ms. McGonagall, Leliana McKay, voodooDRUG, Mariel3, Mamabella, carolann, and BossaNovaBaby24 for reviewing :D)