He liked it when she stayed. Probably more than he would ever admit to.

His quarters had always been comfortable but there was something distinctly homely in her presence.

When she wasn't caught up in her paperwork, Laura liked to read. She liked the center of his couch, her feet tucked under her, one hand finger combing her hair absently.

He liked that she kicked off her heels by his desk, where they'd stay haphazardly until morning.

He liked the smell of her in his sheets after she was gone.

Bill was still haunted by the vision of her execution, the smell of gunpowder, the awful snap of her head. He liked that it let him alone while she was there and stayed away when he could breathe her in his sleep,

He did not like that she obviously did not share the same comfort. He often awoke to a soft whimper in the dark, a gasping sob.

Was she awake?

Should he wake her?

Should he ask her about it in the morning?

She had said that they were good friends… what would a good friend do?

Bill rolled onto his side to face the back of the couch. Coward. But she was still separate from him, both the mask and the wearer, at least this way she could move about without fear of him watching her.

What if it were Saul?

If it were Saul it wouldn't be this complicated. Punching a man in tanks awake in his bunk felt distinctly different than reaching out for a woman in silk in his bed.

The only hint that Laura had awoken at all was the sudden rush of water from the sink and the small, shushing moans it tried to mask.

Bill closed his eyes and pretended to sleep. The only privacy he could provide.