Sense
by Charis
Disclaimer: Battlestar Galactica and all associated characters belong to people who are not me. Dream belongs to Neil Gaiman. I'm just borrowing.
Notes: The side effects of insomnia - mine, that is.
Things need not have happened to be true. Tales and dreams are the shadow-truths that will endure when mere facts are dust and ashes, and forgot.
- Dream, in Sandman #19
"Which one is real?"
The man seated beside her gives her a vaguely puzzled look that somehow manages, at the same time, to be aloof and condescending. His eyes are windows into the star-strewn blackness which is the only sky she knows anymore, almost black in that chalk-white face.
"Must it be one or the other, Laura Roslin?"
She has dreamed him before, has - she thinks, with a sudden sense of déjà vu - dreamed this before: the same place, maybe even the same conversation.
"I can't very well be seeing places and times I've never been to, people I've never even met - to say nothing of things that haven't even happened! It just doesn't make any sense; there's no explanation for it." She is a sensible, intellectual woman. These things cannot be happening to her.
"There are," he says, as though it is the most obvious thing in the world, "a great many things which simply are, without rational explanation, whether or not you have faith in them."
She folds her arms, trying not to look petulant, when in fact she is feeling rather sulky. The white dress she's in flutters around her legs in the faint breeze; the garden they're in is nothing like anywhere else she has dreamed. She wonders suddenly if this is what Earth looks like.
"Why?" she asks, and a thousand lesser questions underly the word.
He does not blink; she is not sure he can, moreso when she notes that his shadow does not fall beside hers on the path before them. "Because."
For a moment, it makes perfect sense.
- finis -
