CHAPTER 11

Laura found not one, but two bottles of wine up on the wine rack. She had to stand on her tiptoes to reach them, and when she brought them down, she discovered that they were covered in a layer of dust. Opening up one of the bags that she had brought from the store, she grabbed a roll of paper towel and promptly began cleaning. She rubbed vigorously at the first bottle, as if the dust offended her. As she finished, she gave an unconscious, agitated toss of her hair.

"Can I help you with anything, Laura?" Bill asked.

"With peanut butter and jelly? No, Bill. Just sit." The second bottle clanged as she placed it on the countertop.

Laura washed her hands and dried them hastily with the same kind of frenetic energy that she had attacked the wine bottles. She darted around the kitchen, pulling out plates and napkins and looking through drawers for a corkscrew. Her fingers felt something surprisingly soft in one of the drawers that otherwise contained various kitchen odds and ends. She pulled out a potholder that Cheryl had crocheted when she was very little, with its bright purple and orange colors, the stitching uneven. The edges were frayed from overuse, and images of family dinners that she would never have again flashed through Laura's mind. She made a small sound in the back of her throat and quietly slid the drawer closed.

"I'm sorry….I'm really sorry," she said suddenly without turning around. She stopped all movement. "I haven't really been back here, Bill, for a long time – except for a very occasional check-in with Kara but I wouldn't stay. Did Lee ever explain to you about the accident?"

"Yes," answered Bill, although that wasn't exactly how he had found out. But he didn't really want to explain why he'd been looking Laura Roslin up on the intranet – mostly because he didn't even know why himself.

"I found out about it after the night we all had dinner, after you tried to – "

"Recklessly detain the drunk driver?" she supplied. He watched her bring a hand to her eyes in one quick, dismissive motion. It was the motion of someone who hoped that he wouldn't notice.

"It was a very brave thing to do."

Laura turned around to face Bill, her face completely composed. "I don't remember you thinking so at the time."

"Well, my primary concern was about making sure you didn't get hurt."

"I just thought. Maybe just one action. One little thing, some tiny detail. And I could stop it." She opened another drawer and searched around again for a bottle opener but her eyes weren't really focused on any object in front of her. They were far away. Bill wasn't sure if she was talking about the driver from the restaurant or the one who had collided with her family. Probably both. "I'm not very good company," she added, as the focus of her gaze returned to him. Her eyes had lost a little bit of their vivid greenness tonight. There were flecks of gray. Like stone or granite in a bed of moss. There was something hard and flinty and foreign in her eyes tonight. Not really her - but a quality that she had to adapt, like an animal being forced to adjust to a new climate simply for the sake of survival.

"It's understandable that being here would be difficult for you - and you didn't expect to have a guest tonight." Bill was quiet for a moment. "Kara means well, you know."

"I know." Laura sighed heavily. Her voice drooped and faded like a dropped cello. "I've put Kara through a lot," she said cryptically. "Gods, I can't even find a frakin' bottle opener." She pushed the drawer closed.

"Do you have a serrated knife?"

"Drawer on your left."

Laura watched Bill grab a knife from the drawer, push the sharp point into the cork of the Pinot Noir, and slowly twist. The cork took a long time to give but finally there was a loud pop and the cork rolled across the kitchen counter. They reached for it at the same time. Laura got to it first, and when Bill's hand felt for the cork, he found instead that his hand covered hers. Their eyes met and neither moved as the air itself that surrounded them seemed to still, too. But just as quickly, the pause was set in motion again, and they both promptly looked elsewhere before breaking apart, conversation ceasing.

The silence continued as Laura busily began making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and Bill searched the cupboards for wine glasses. He found two and poured the wine.

"Are you sure this is all you want, Bill?"

Inexplicably, Bill's heart lurched at the question. He blinked.

"It's not exactly a gourmet meal," Laura continued. They sat down across from one another at the round table. It could seat five, and it seemed awfully big and awfully empty with just the two of them.

"This is fine. I love peanut butter and jelly." He smiled and wished that she would smile back. When she smiled, her face glowed like the very first light of morning. But now her features were dark.

Laura hummed. "So if you weren't here having a perfectly terrible Friday evening with me, what, I wonder, would you be doing?" Laura took a tiny sip of her wine.

"Drinks with an old friend."

"And instead you're here – babysitting."

"I wouldn't exactly call it that." He was thoughtful for a moment. "I'd call it being supportive."

"Yes, I guess that's nicer. Certainly more diplomatic."

"Laura," said Bill quietly, "You know – you don't have to go through this alone."

For a moment, Bill was certain that she was going to cry. But just as suddenly, the flicker of vulnerability vanished like a trick of the light, and she was clearing away his empty plate without acknowledging his comment. He picked up her untouched plate and wrapped the sandwich up for her in plastic while she poured her mostly full glass of wine down the sink.

"Listen, Bill, it's been a long day. I'm going to head to bed. I'm sorry to be such a poor hostess."

"You sure you don't want to sit up with me for a little while?" She was hurting. Bill could see it in every taut line of her face, in the way she looked around her surroundings without really absorbing anything, as if she merely observed rather than participated in her environment. He'd done it, too, embraced the detachment and put up a shield when the grief was too much. It's what people do to get through. He suspected that Laura had done more than her fair share of simply getting through.

She shook her head. "Not tonight. Is there anything I can get you before I go to bed?"

"No, thanks. You get some rest and if you need anything, I'm pretty close by."

"Thank you, Bill." He watched her disappear into her bedroom like a wraith.

It was difficult enough for Bill to get a good night's sleep in Caprica with the sounds of a city that he was unused to, without the soothing pulse of Galactica's engines. But here in the country, the quiet was too much. It was too still. The room was unfamiliar. He imagined that he was sleeping in Laura's bed; the other two in the room were bunk beds and she was the oldest so, technically, she outranked her sisters for the best bed. Bill finally gave up trying to sleep, deciding to dig out the book that he had brought with him. He turned on the light and glanced again around the room. There were posters on the walls, animals and fantasy art that would have come from the girls' childhood. There were movie posters with handsome teenage heartthrobs in heroic poses and a couple of punk bands. Something tangible lingered there in the room of the three sisters who had shared secrets and laughter, stories of first loves, and dreams of a future that wouldn't completely come. A cork board was loaded with pictures that Laura had not taken down. Bill smiled at one in particular of the three girls, still small, all dressed in white ruffles, wearing wide brimmed hats and big smiles while they had what looked like a tea party.

It was only because the cabin was so quiet that Bill heard it. Otherwise, he was sure that he would never have noticed. The sound was so soft. It was the muffled but still unmistakable sound of a woman crying, starting and stopping at irregular intervals. Bill got out of bed and grabbed a t-shirt to put on with his shorts. He felt his way through the unfamiliar cabin; it wasn't far to go. In the darkness, he approached Laura's door and listened.

Nothing. Bill waited. And sure enough, he heard it again, this time just a small, choked intake of breath.

Bill decided right then and there that since he'd already done a multitude of stupid things where Laura was concerned, why not add one more? But even more than that, the idea of leaving her in there all alone and doing nothing for her, was simply inconceivable.

He gave a light tap on her door. "I hope you're decent because I'm coming in there," he warned, as he opened the door up and stepped inside her bedroom. The room was lit with nothing but a little moonlight but Bill could see Laura well enough as she sat up in bed with a pillow, which clearly explained the muffling, wrapped in her arms.

Bill didn't need any light to make out the stubborn outward push of her chin. "I'm fine, Bill. Go back to bed."

"If this is what fine looks like, Laura, I'd hate to see what you look like when you're miserable." And with that, Bill leaned over the bed and pulled Laura against him, pillow and all. She stiffened but she didn't push him away - so he merely yanked the pillow out from between their bodies and continued to hold her. He wondered how her body could feel so cool on such a warm night. The first sob came and Bill felt as if it may as well have been his own. He sank down on the bed beside her without letting her go.

He offered her what he could, which he knew from losing his son, would never be enough. The tension in her body uncoiled with the tears, and Laura buried her face against his neck. Bill made quiet, wordless sounds of consolation while he wondered how often she did this. How many nights had she sat up, hugging a pillow, and stifled her grief? Alone.

"I shouldn't be like this," she said brokenly. "It's been almost five years. I should be better."

"It doesn't have a time table." His chin brushed the top of her head.

"I feel so irrational. I –"

"There's nothing more incomprehensible than losing the people we love. How do you expect to react logically to something that has no intrinsic logic, hmmm?"

"Kara had already been accepted at the academy when it happened. She didn't want to go because she worried about me. I didn't want her to go. But I wouldn't tell her that. Of all careers….the military. You don't know how hard it was for me to sanction that. If I'd lost her, too, it would have been endgame for me. But I pulled it together. I insisted. And then I just kept busy. Very, very busy."

"You can only push it away for so long, Laura. It only gathers momentum. But you're facing it now, brave girl."

"I think the numbness is easier."

"Not in the end, it's not."

"And I don't feel very brave."

Bill put a hand under her chin and tipped her tear-stained face up to look at him.

"You're going to be okay, Laura Roslin," he promised.

"How do you know?"

He smiled. "I just do."

Laura returned the smile, a fragile thing, an uncertain wisp of a smile. But it was enough.

"Maybe you'll play something for me on the piano tomorrow," Bill suggested.

He felt her muscles tighten up. "I don't know. I don't know if I'm ready for that. We'll see."

Laura withdrew from him and found herself immediately missing the warmth of the close contact. It was good to be held like that. Uncomplicated. Without expectations.

"I should let you get some sleep," offered Bill. "Unless you want to talk some more. Whatever you need, Laura."

"I think I'll try - to see if I can sleep."

Bill nodded and slipped out of bed. He pulled the covers over her, smoothing them. Laura was surprised by how much the simplicity of the gesture eased her.

"Goodnight, Bill."

"Goodnight, Laura."

"Bill - "

He paused at the threshold.

"Thank you."