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When the cabin is finished, Laura throws a housewarming party, and tells herself that a single bed in a room with a fireplace is better than a pile of sandbags on a cold night.
It’s not what she had imagined. Glass and plastic are too valuable to be used for windows, so a couple of holes are carved into the walls with wooden shutters that block all light out when closed. The mountain air is colder than the general settlement, and the small porch out front is a far cry from the wraparound she had envisioned. There’s no electricity up here; she has to rely on natural light and candles, and the dark quiet of the night disturbs her more than she’d like to admit. She feels like she’s floating in space, far from the comfort of her ship, and when she lies awake she pretends that the creaking she hears at night is the groan of Galactica, instead of wind in the trees.
Four years they’ve been here now, and the small slate she keeps in her desk reads 33,481. This is the first winter since Baltar’s impeachment. Tom Zarek has stepped to the plate, more so than anyone had expected, but that doesn’t change the fact that antibiotics are long gone and no one remembers what it’s like to be truly full.
A draft rattles the metal roof above her, and Laura shifts, restlessly. She’s going to Galactica tomorrow; the thought has gotten her through the past two weeks, but tonight she feels like a child the night before their birthday. She turned 56 last month, and feels every year like a weight in her bones.
Morning comes in a sliver of sun that slips through a gap in the walls. Laura dresses quickly, thick corduroy pants and a sweatshirt that’s seen better days; gathering her small overnight bag, she heads out to the raptor site. It’s busy this time of year, the few weeks before snowfall makes supply runs difficult.
“Lieutenant Agathon,” she greets the pilot cordially, smoothing her face automatically, as she always does around Sharon. Laura knows that the other woman can’t see Isis in her eyes, but images of the little girl, who’s just started kindergarten, flash through her mind in a wave of maternal pride and heavy guilt. Sharon, oblivious, nods back at her from her seat up front.
Four others climb into the raptor with them. Laura recognizes two members of Galactica’s crew, who must have been here on shore leave, but not the older man and woman sitting across from her. They spend the short flight making small talk about the upcoming holiday season and Zarek’s recent announcement that the Zephyr will be grounded for the next four months to conserve fuel. When the raptor breaks through the atmosphere, Laura falls silent, and presses her lips together to contain the smile threatening to break loose at the familiar, rewarding sight of the old Battlestar.
The landing is smooth and when the door opens with a hiss of decompression, it’s to reveal a nearly deserted hangar deck. Even after all this time Laura misses seeing the Chief in his orange jumpsuit, waving a grease-stained hand in greeting. Most of the deckhands have been transferred to Pegasus in order to produce new vipers, despite the distinct lack of pilots.
Bidding goodbye to Sharon and the other passengers, Laura starts towards sickbay, where Cottle is stationed for the next two weeks. Sickbay is surprisingly full compared to the rest of the ship; long term patients have taken up residence off the surface, the meager hospital on the ground occupied with the constant cases of pneumonia and the last remnants of the flu outbreak that left over 200 dead.
Ishay is tending to a teenage girl in a bed near the hatch. With a pang, Laura recognizes her as Penny, the lively blonde she’d taught the first year on the surface. She’d left school to work and Laura had seen her around on occasion, but apparently she’d been on Galactica for awhile – the area around her bed is decorated with photos and other personal touches, and a couple of books are on her bedside table, next to a pile of letters. Stepping further in, Laura knocks on the wall to make her presence known.
“Hi, Ms. Roslin,” Penny says cheerfully, wiping a strand of hair from her forehead. “What are you doing up here?”
“Just a checkup,” Laura replies easily, smiling at Ishay and sitting on the edge of Penny’s bed. “Doc Cottle likes to run some tests on me every now and then, and it gives me an excuse to get off the ground.” She doesn’t elaborate, just pats Penny’s leg over the blankets. “How are you doing, honey?”
Penny shrugs, and Laura notices that she’s wearing a t-shirt instead of a hospital gown. “I ruptured my spleen about a month ago, and came down with an infection, so I’ve been up here awhile. I think I’m gonna be able to go home soon, though.”
“Not if you keep sneaking around the ship with that friend of yours,” Cottle interrupts with a raised eyebrow, making his way towards the bed and denying Laura the chance to dwell on Penny’s use of the word “home” to describe New Caprica. “If I find you in the pilot’s bunkroom one more time I’m keeping you here another month, you hear me? And I mean in here,” he adds, gesturing to the sterile surroundings and ignoring Penny’s crimson face. Laura bites her lip to keep from laughing, patting the girl’s leg once more as she stands.
“I hope you feel better soon,” she tells her, and turns to face Cottle. “Let’s get this over with?”
He snorts. “Good to see you too.” Leading Laura into a more private area of the infirmary, he pulls a curtain closed around the metal exam table she stiffly sits herself on. The metal is cold, even through the thick fabric of her pants.
She hates these exams, these perfunctory tests that she undergoes every six months to ensure her cancer is still in remission. They remind her of the time that it wasn’t, how close she came to death, and especially remind her of how she was pulled back from its grip. Knowing, practically raising, Isis has helped her accept what lives in her now, but she’ll never be comfortable with it. Even so, these exams bring her to Galactica; the hospital on the surface is well equipped but is crowded, and knowing the unofficial Surgeon General has its advantages. Cottle, who she is convinced is a romantic at heart, talks about nosy civilians and convenience and she accepts it at face value, having no reason to argue and every reason to go with it.
Still, as she slips into the drafty hospital gown he hands her, she can’t deny how grateful she is for the privacy.
***
The test results will be back in a couple of days and until then, she’ll be staying on Galactica. Officially, guest quarters have been arranged for her. Unofficially, she lets herself in to the Admiral’s cabin and finds herself engaged in her old habit of browsing his bookshelves, drink in hand and shoes on the floor.
He’s left a note for her on the table: Laura – in CIC until 1400. Make yourself at home. I’ll see you soon. It’s only 1:20 now, her appointment didn’t take long, so she sinks onto his couch with a book in her lap. She’s barely made it to the third page when the hatch opens.
Looking up, Laura smiles widely and puts the book down beside her. “You’re home early,” she comments wryly, standing to face him. “Not much to do in CIC these days?”
“Plenty to do,” Bill replies, shutting the hatch behind him. “But I’m the boss, I get to order the kids around. I’m sure you can relate.”
Laura smirks. “I can order all I want, doesn’t mean anyone listens to me. Students don’t have the same respect for their teachers as they used to.” She moves forward at the same time Bill does until they’re inches apart, and she places a warm hand on his arm. “But I’m glad your crew still listens to you.”
“It’s a special occasion,” he says in that quiet voice of his, and it sends shivers down her spine to hear it in person after nearly two months apart. “They know when to behave.” He gives her that smile she loves, the full-fledged grin that didn’t grace his face once in the first months of their working relationship but has become a familiar fixture in the time since. Cupping her cheek, he kisses her lightly, just a gentle brush of her lips before pulling her close to him and wrapping his arms around her waist, burying his face in her neck. Laura winds her fingers through his hair, clutching his collar with her other hand, and is overwhelmed by how much she’s missed him, how happy she is to be holding him. She never forgets how he makes her feel, but those long, dark nights in her lonely cabin, she finds herself unable to actually feel it: this combination of elation and adrenaline that has her heart beating erratically and her stomach somewhere in her throat.
“Missed you,” she whispers in his ear, and smiles at him when he pulls away to look at her again. “You need to come down more often.”
This is part of their exchange. She knows that Bill won’t leave Galactica until he’s convinced that it’s in good hands, and though Lee and Helo have come into their own, she also knows that neither of them will be entirely comfortable with Bill sidelined. The past four years have been difficult enough for her, stuck watching as tragedy unfolds around every corner, and knowing that Bill was still standing in CIC was one of her only comforts; she was, and remains, willing to sacrifice a real relationship with him for him to remain in command. But they both live for his shore leaves, a long weekend every few months where she leaves Maya alone at the school and spends the little time they have together willing to pretend that he won’t have to go back. The rest of the time they have to live in the reality that until something happens – Bill retires, the Cylons return, the new President decides to resume the search for Earth – those few moments are all they have.
When he lets go of her, now, she takes his hand and leads him back to the couch where she was sitting. “I’m here for a couple of days,” she tells him. “I think Cottle’s delaying the test results to give me a little time up here. Not that he’d ever admit to it.”
“Don’t know if I can put up for a roommate for that long,” Bill grumbles, pressing a kiss to her hair. His arm is around her; they never stop touching when the option is available to them. “I’m too used to this bachelor pad.”
Snorting, Laura leans back and looks up at him. “Bachelor pad? What, are you twenty and bringing different girls in every night?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I could never pass for twenty.” Giggling, Laura swats him halfheartedly, pleased that he’s in a playful mood. That reminds her of something, and she leans down to grab her overnight bag from where it rests at the foot of the couch. Bill watches contentedly as she roots through it, still resting a hand on her back, and smiles widely as she pulls out two joints.
“I don’t know if I should be giving you one of these, you’re already in quite a mood,” she teases him, but hands it to him anyway. This isn’t exactly a tradition – although they generally do find time to indulge on his shore leaves, she rarely brings her homemade cigarettes up to Galactica, knowing that it really wouldn’t look good for the Admiral of the admittedly nonexistent fleet to be caught stoned on his own ship. But it’s been awhile and she doesn’t think they can hurt. “You’re not on duty, are you?”
“Not till tomorrow morning,” he assures her, lighting her joint before pulling his own between his teeth. “I’ve cleared most of my schedule until Monday.”
Laura leans back against him, exhaling a plume of smoke and humming slightly. “Good,” she sighs, and falls silent.
They sit like that, his arm around her and her hair fanned across the fabric of his uniform jacket, until he asks the question she knows he’s been waiting to ask. “How’d the appointment go?”
“Fine,” she says halfheartedly. “An old student of mine was in sickbay, ruptured her spleen. Apparently she’s quite taken with one of your pilots.” Bill rolls his eyes.
“Oh, I know her,” he replies. “One of my pilots is quite taken with her.”
Laura smirks, rolling one of the buttons on his uniform through her fingers. “Well, apparently the combined forces of you and Cottle haven’t split them up yet. That must say something.”
“Yeah, says I’ve gotten soft,” Bill grumbles. She rolls her eyes, smiling up at him, and his eyes crinkle at the corners as he takes another drag.
***
“Zarek’s term is almost up,” Bill mentions that night over dinner. Rations on Galactica are better than what they have planetside – most of their chickens were wiped out with some sort of disease, but the freezers on the ship have preserved the limited supply for special occasions. She’s grateful that this constitutes as one.
Nodding, she takes another bite. “I doubt he’s going to run again. Technically he could, but he hasn’t made any sort of announcement, and it would be a miracle for him to win anyway, he’s still considered too close to Baltar.” Since the ex-President’s breakdown eight months ago had left him confined to a padded room – Laura had taken a vicious sort of satisfaction in that – Zarek has stepped to the plate in ways that she wouldn’t have imagined. Even before that it was clear who was running the government; her few visits to Colonial One since it was grounded, not long after the initial settlement, had left little doubt as to what Baltar was up to, and it wasn’t governance. But Zarek was also the man who got Baltar elected to begin with, and served as his Vice President, so the chances of a fair reelection are unlikely.
Bill takes a sip of his drink. “You thinking about running?” The question is phrased casually, but not deceptively so – there’s no way to hide the weight of what he’s asking.
Slowly, Laura puts her fork down. “I’ve thought about it,” she replies quietly. “Thought about it for four years, now. But nothing beyond that.”
“It would be good to see you on Colonial One again,” Bill reflects. “But I think I might be biased.” She smiles, briefly. “And anyone would be better than Zarek at this point.”
“Well,” Laura says, “I’m not sure I’m up for it; I’m happy, back in the classroom. It depends. I’ll run if no one else does.”
They both know she’d be reelected, if she chooses to be. The same people who voted her out of office now look to her, to Saul Tigh, to Galen Tyrol and all of the other people who kept the fleet going on the search for Earth as the unofficial leaders of the human race. There’s not much she can do as an unofficial anything, though, and knows it.
The conversation doesn’t end there, but is put on hold as a knock on the hatch signifies coffee and dessert. Heavier thoughts fall away as they enjoy some sort of custard, dance to the soft jazz he puts on, shower and get dressed for bed only to have to do it all over again an hour later.
Only when they’re curled up in his rack once more, damp and sated and content, does Laura return to the topic. “It would be hard,” she says, “to be President again. It’s been four years but I can’t help but wonder if things will end the same way. Last time –” her voice breaks, and Bill tightens his arm around her – “last time I gave them everything and they threw it all away. I’m not sure I have that much left to give. I don’t know if I can give them anything on New Caprica.” She sniffles, then lets out a quiet giggle. “And I’m not even sure what I’d do – no Cylons to fight, no Earth to find…you’ve got to be bored out of your skull.” She curls closer to Bill, grinning slightly.
“I am,” he admits, and sighs. “You ever wonder what would have happened if we had kept going? Found Earth?”
“Every day,” Laura says, wistful. “But I think it’s too late now. We’ve put down too many roots. We can’t just undo the past four years, much as we may like to. And it hasn’t been all bad. The Cylons haven’t come back.”
“I’m starting to think they won’t,” Bill says. “And if they do, there’s really nothing we can do. Not for a few years now. We’d have to jump, try to pull off some sort of rescue.” This is nothing new; they’ve discussed this many times. But he continues. “Lee and Helo can do that just as well as I can, now.”
Propping herself up on an elbow, Laura searches his face, and Bill pushes her hair back behind her ear. It still brushes his skin. “I don’t want to leave Zarek in charge of the entire fleet,” he tells her – they both still say “the fleet”, although they haven’t been, in ages. “But if things work out in May – if someone I can trust, or someone you can trust, winds up in office – I think it’s about time I muster out.”
Laura catches her breath. “Are you serious?” she breathes, and at his nod, she leans down and presses her lips to his, hard. He kisses her back languidly, winding his hand under her hair to cup the back of her neck. When she runs out of breath she pulls away just an inch and presses her forehead to his, brushing her lips over his again and again, each time she exhales. Bill smiles up at her, that beaming smile she pictures every morning and the thought that she might actually get to see it from now on is enough to make her kiss him again.
“I love you,” she whispers against his mouth, and then giggles as he grips her hips and flips her to the left so that they’re lying on their sides, facing each other. “Gods, it’ll be good to have you down there.”
“It’s been long enough,” he says simply, kissing her forehead.
They lie silently for a long time. Laura’s breathing evens out but she doesn’t fall asleep, unwilling to sacrifice this time to wasteful dreamland. Instead she rubs her thumb along the lines in Bill’s hand, tracing every bit of skin and committing it to her memory. Her eyes drift shut and she feels his breath on her face; when she opens them again, it’s to meet his blue eyes, soft and sleepy.
She pictures her empty cabin, down on the surface of the planet, and then allows herself to imagine how it might look lined with bookshelves. The painting that hangs over his couch would look good above the wide bed that they’ll finally be able to enjoy after too many nights in his rack and her cot. She sees these things in the same golden light that fills the room they’re in now, and can’t help but kiss him again.
When she does fall asleep, it’s with the promise that she’ll see his face in the morning.