Disclaimer: Battlestar Galactica belongs to Ronald D. Moore and the Sci-Fi channel.

Chapter 4: Healing the wounds

Once back at the admiral's quarters, they changed and took turns showering. As Laura seated herself on the couch, Bill walked over to the hatch. "I've still got my shift to finish."

She stood, her shoes over by the door. "Bill…"

"I'm a soldier who's got a job to finish. I'll see you in a few hours," he stated, leaving her to stare after him.

Sighing, she walked over to his desk. "I hope there's a way to get through this," she said aloud as she sank into the desk chair, placing her head in her hands.

After a while, she turned back to the desk. The Pythia prophecy sat off to the right side, mocking her. "A lot of good you turned out to be," she said sarcastically.

Then she picked up the book. With a flick of her wrist, it landed in the trash can next to the desk. She pulled open one of the drawers, finding a blank piece of paper and a pencil. She smirked, noticing that it was only half of a pencil, the other half being broken at some point. She began making a numbered list down the paper. There has to be something we're missing. We need to look at all of our options before things get any worse.

Move on and look for a new planet

Use Earth as a salvage yard and then look for a new planet

See what the Cylons want to do, or not

Find a new planet and don't tell the Cylons where we've gone

Somehow trick Zarek into stepping inside an airlock and accidentally pushing the wrong button

She giggled at the last one, but she was still no closer to an answer. Later she ordered up two plates of noodles from the mess hall. When the admiral returned, he stalked over to a bottle of Ambrosia and poured himself a glass. Laura looked up from the desk. "How did your shift go?"

He spoke, looking at the wall instead of her. "I had to send three people out of CIC because they were crying. How am I supposed to run this ship if my crew can't hold it together while they're on duty?"

"I hope you're not planning on finishing off that bottle this time. You'll hate yourself in the morning," she scolded.

With a quick nod back, he drained the glass and slammed it down on the counter. "I don't remember asking you to keep an eye on my drinking habits."

She watched him pour himself another glass. "Alcohol fraks with your head."

"And chamalla doesn't?" he countered.

I guess it's a night for low blows, she thought. "Stop this."

"You don't have the right to tell me what I can and can't drink. Besides, this one's for Saul," Bill retorted.

She sat on the couch. "What happened with Saul?"

He took a gulp of the drink, letting it burn on its way down before speaking again. "My best friend is a Cylon, but I still need my XO. So I've got an XO I'll never be able to trust again."

"Have you had a talk with him since you found out?" she probed.

His grip around the glass tightened. "That's none of your damn business. It's my problem…" he trailed off, spotting the Pythia prophecy in his trash can. "What's up with that?"

She stood, crossing her arms in front of her as she walked toward him. "That, sir, is none of your business."

Looking away from her, he drained the last of the liquor from his glass. "I'm too tired for this. Let's just go to bed."

"You're not even going to eat anything? I did order up a tray. It's a form of noodles," she mentioned.

He stormed off toward the bathroom. She grabbed her plate and ate while listening to him grumble as he headed to bed. Later after she had dressed in her pajamas, she spotted him sleeping in his rack and realized something. We haven't discussed sleeping arrangements yet. I suppose I'll take the couch tonight, she resolved. Finding blankets, she stretched herself out on the couch and fell asleep.

His arms had been fused with metal, though they were still shaped like his hands. He felt cold all over, as though he was walking through a sheet of ice. In CIC no one seemed to notice the difference. In fact, they not only did not notice, they had metallic limbs as well. He sucked in a breath when he saw Dee's face transform into the Cylon Centurion head with the red bar eye slit. Then he caught his reflection in the console: his head was a Cylon's head.

Bill woke, bolting out of bed, making enough noise to wake Laura on the couch as he bumped into a chair. She groaned as sat up on the couch, watching as he dashed into the bathroom. He flicked on the light switch and breathed a sigh of relief: the face in the mirror was his own.

Laura's image entered the mirror. Even with the cracks in it, he could tell that she had crossed her arms in front of her. "Mind telling me what that was all about?"

Bill faced her, his good hand lingering on the bathroom counter. "Nightmare."

"Though I shouldn't be surprised, considering the alcohol you've consumed, I still have to ask. What sort of nightmare would drag you out of bed?" she probed.

He sighed heavily, running his good hand through his sleep-mussed hair. "I should warn you that it's going to sound stupid. I dreamed all of the humans' bodies were fusing with metal. We were all becoming Cylon centurions. Then I saw my reflection in CIC and I had a Cylon head."

She rested a hand on his chest. "It wasn't real. Have a glass water and go back to bed."

He stepped away from her, turning his back. "I can't. With everything that's happened, I've got too much on my mind. I'll just have more nightmares," he paused, glaring at the mess he had made of the mirror earlier. "This whole frakking thing is a nightmare, from the Cylons to that frakking planet we've called Earth!"

She touched his left shoulder. "Bill, listen-"

"No! Dammit, I don't know how to deal with all of this," he fumed. Then he glared at her. "How can you be so calm, seeing the disaster we've led our people to?"

Placing her hands on her hips, she retaliated. "Do you honestly think I don't feel anything? You have no idea how bad I feel about this – none at all! I was supposed to be their prophet, and I've led them to who-knows-what-kind of contaminated waste trap! I feel horrible about this on a level you can't possibly understand!"

Realizing that she had been yelling, she let her hands drop to her sides and took a deep breath. "The difference is that when I walk through that door," she pointed to his hatch, "I leave the mess and the stress outside. It's a sanctuary in here, a home. It should be one to you as well."

Bill reached for one of her hands. "I see your point. The problem is that I can't get my mind off things."

"Then you need some sort of distraction," she mentioned with a smirk, her free hand finger-walking up his tanks.

He let a half-smile slip out. "I don't suppose you've got any of that New Caprican weed on y-"

He had not seen it coming as she grabbed his tanks and interrupted him with a kiss. As her lips moved over his, he realized that it was far more serious than their first kiss had been. Instead of a chaste peck, she tugged at his lips, eliciting a small groan from him.

She moved back, smiling at the shell-shocked expression on his face. "Was that a good enough distraction?"

Unable to articulate anything close to words, he pulled her to him and kissed her deeply. His hands roamed her back, slipping under her shirt. She yanked his tanks up over his head with a quick jerk. When his lips moved to her neck and collarbone, she let the 'hum' sound slip out. While his hands strayed farther up, hers slipped farther down. Neither paid any attention when her headscarf fell off. By the time they reached his rack, their clothes were no longer in the way. His lips returned to hers as he dragged both of them onto the rack, ignoring the mess of the covers. Skin against skin, she arched against him as their tongues battled. Unlike their earlier argument, this sort of battle was one neither would mind repeating. Her last coherent thought before she gave herself to the moment was perhaps we don't need to have that talk about sleeping arrangements after all.

(My thanks to McGonagallFan and carolann for reviewing :D)