July, 2004

Laura turned the page of her calendar to the new month.

She wasn't taking a vacation this year. She'd be attending the President's Fourth of July Ball right here in Washington. She'd been requested to attend.

She opened the third drawer of her desk and pulled out the book she kept her private contact numbers in, opening it to 'A'.

She picked up the telephone and slowly punched in the first three digits. But then she lost her nerve, and pressed the disconnect button instead.

Laura spun her chair around to take in the view from her office window. Everyone looked like they had a destination; hurrying home to start the long weekend.

Turning back to her desk, she picked up her pen and decided to address some of the growing backlog of paperwork.

It soon became apparent, however, that she couldn't concentrate.

Her eyes wandered back to the telephone. It wasn't such a difficult thing, she told herself. You got a tone, you dialed the numbers, and you waited for the person the other end to answer. Easy.

Laura sighed. The difficult part was that she hadn't spoken to the person she was calling for almost twelve months.

If Bill Adama had wanted to talk to her, he could have called. He knew her number, after all. He'd rung her once before.

It had been in August, 2001. She hadn't had a good day. Richard's latest mistress was threatening to go to the press. She was in full damage control mode.

"Laura Roslin," she'd snapped.

"Hello." He hadn't announced himself. There was no need. The rich tones of his voice came through the phone line with just the right amount of huskiness; her heart rate responded accordingly.

"Captain?" she greeted him with surprise.

"Is this a bad time?"

There was a slight echo in the line, and a short delay when he replied, leading Laura to believe he was calling from the Eisenhower.

"Yes, but it doesn't matter. I don't think there would be any good time today."

"That bad, huh?"

"Worse."

"I can call back."

"No!" she practically shouted. "No," she repeated firmly. "How'd you get my private office number? Oh, don't tell me, Cheryl."

He'd chuckled. "She likes to talk."

"You're a good listener." It was true. He didn't interrupt or talk over the top of people. Laura imagined it would be the way he would command. He wouldn't cajole or charm people the way Richard Adar did. He would take advice from others, let his crew have input, then make his decision after careful deliberation.

Laura wondered how he reacted when he needed to make split-second, life-or-death decisions. He didn't seem the type. Considering his rank within the Navy, though, he must have learned to do so.

"So, I'm listening," he said. "Tell me something."

She grinned. "Something? Like what?"

"I don't know. Something I don't know about you."

She absentmindedly curled the phone cord around the fingers of her other hand. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know lots."

"Lots?"

"I know you can dance. I know your favorite song is Fly Me to the Moon."

"And?" she prompted when he paused.

"And you're single. Which seems to be vitally important to me at the moment."

Her breath caught at his confession, at the intimacy in his tone.

"Tell me something no one knows," he quietly ordered.

"I can't think of anything—"

"Yes you can. One thing. It can be as silly or as serious as you want."

"Okay. Um," she paused, thinking. "I love foot rubs."

"Foot rubs?"

"Yes. I wear these ridiculous high heels all day. Every evening I kick them off and snuggle into the couch with a book. And I long for a foot rub," she explained. "Now, you tell me one."

"Okay." He was silent, thinking. So silent she thought they'd been disconnected.

"Bill?"

"I'm here."

"What's one thing no one knows about you?"

"It's a new thing. Just now."

"Uh-huh."

"I want to join you on that couch. Read to you from your book. Give you a foot rub."

Laura leaned back and closed her eyes, savoring the image for a moment.

"That's cheating," she finally said, her own voice becoming equally husky. "I demand you tell me another."

"Okay." There was a prolonged period of silence again. Not complete silence, she corrected herself; she could hear his breathing. "There is one thing."

"What is it?"

"I—"

Another voice came on the line. "Thirty seconds, sir."

"Sorry," he said. "We have a limit on calls at the moment. It wouldn't look good if I abused my position."

"Oh," she sighed. "No. I guess not."

"We can continue this at a later time."

"Okay," she agreed breathlessly.

They never had continued their conversation. Less than a month later, America had been attacked and the Eisenhower was dispatched to the Arabian Sea.

Richard Adar gave many stirring speeches, some written by Laura, in the shocking aftermath of the attacks. He continually displayed the talent for leadership and strength of character that the country was desperate for in the wake of the terrible tragedy.

In December, Adar had been elected President. In January, Cheryl and Sandra were dead. Bill Adama was still assigned to an overseas post. The opportunity for romance had passed them by.

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Richard had a new mistress. This time, however, she didn't need to worry that the other woman was going to approach the press.

Laura picked up the telephone again and determinedly dialed the number.

"Adama."

He'd answered. Now what, Laura?...

"You never told me," she said, "what your one thing was."

Silence greeted her. Had she been foolish to assume that not only would he recognize her voice, but would also recall a telephone conversation from three years ago?...

"Why don't I tell you in person when you come down for the fireworks on Saturday night?"

"I've sold the house," she sighed. "Remember?"

"I know. But you're welcome to stay here."

"I don't think-," she began, then paused and inhaled deeply, steadying herself.

"I've got a spare room. Two of them," he added.

Laura wondered what he'd say if she invited him to be her date for the President's Ball. She was shocked by her sudden lustful desire to see Bill Adama in a tuxedo.

"I have to work."

This was true. The Ball was definitely work; shaking hands, endless small talk, smiling.

"All weekend?"

"Yes." For the first time since meeting Bill, she felt uncomfortable talking to him. This had been a mistake. There was too much water under the bridge for them; too much time between drinks.

"I'm sorry, Bill, I've just had someone come into my office with a pressing problem," she lied. "I have to go."

She hung up as soon as he'd muttered a brief 'okay' and 'goodbye' in reply.

She jumped when the telephone trilled to life almost immediately afterwards.

"Hello, Laura."

"Mr. President," she replied.

"I was thinking about that black bra of yours," he told her in a low voice. "Are you wearing it?"

"Yes," she replied automatically. But then she remembered that the item in question was in a drawer at home, not on her body. She always told Richard whatever he wanted to hear. She'd fallen so easily into the habit, but now, suddenly, it was beginning to sicken her.

Richard groaned into the phone. "Thirty minutes. The apple room?" he asked. He'd probably invented the code several mistresses ago.

Her relationship with Sean Ellison was all about being seen. She brought prestige to his public reputation. Laura Roslin was a well-known name, and she was invited to all the right functions and parties.

Her relationship with Richard Adar was all about not being seen. She could be trusted never to sully his reputation. He turned on the charm, made her feel wanted for a while, and then left her with her independence.

Did she want to go? She was tiring of Adar, but what was the alternative? It was a much better arrangement than pursuing Bill Adama.

Richard would never love her. She would never love him.

Bill would love her. He would do everything in his power not to hurt her. As such, she would end up hurt anyway. She'd had enough of hurt.

But Bill would also respect her. She was slowly losing respect for herself by carrying on with Richard.

"I can't. Sorry."

She hung up quickly, before Richard could try to change her mind. She knew she would have to face him sooner or later; tell him it was over.

Because it was over.

It was time she found out what she was capable of without a man. Any man.

She tore the page from her little book, and stared at the numbers for a long moment before walking over to the shredder that sat in the corner of her office.