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Laura Roslin is holding her baby. They are in their house, with the bright red door, and the furniture that smells of home despite the state of New Caprica. Saul is in the next room, cooking breakfast for everyone. She can smell the sausages on the air, and smiles slightly. Let it never be said that Laura Roslin didn’t count her blessings - being able to have proper food was a godssend after all that time aboard Colonial One. Saul is humming one of his jazz songs, and she can hear Galen’s elder children babbling to one another.
Eleanor shifts slightly in her arms, kicking her legs a little as if unconsciously trying to get comfortable. A small bubble blows between her small lips, and Laura smiles again. Despite everything, her baby really does make going from day to day worth it. That, and the resistance.
She fingers the dog tags around her neck, their cool comfort, the solid clink. Other than Eleanor, these are all she has of Bill, and she treasures them more than all the nice furniture and real food in her house. Aurora shifts a little more, and then cracks open her eyes. Green eyes, like Laura’s own. Olive-coloured skin like Bill’s, though. And, she hopes, the strength of both of them. A part of her still feels a little guilty for bringing this child into the world. Her baby’s life will be hard, she knows, and whether she’s strong or not, the fight will come to her. So she must be strong. How can she be anything else? She is the best of both of them, born of a frantic love that fought for life as hard as Eleanor will.
Saul calls out that the food is ready. Rocking Eleanor slightly, she walks through to the kitchen, crammed with people and friendly noise. Light filters in through the window, casting a golden glow on the things it falls on - the table, a couple of chairs, the edge of the metal stove. Saul wanders over from plating the food, leaving Ellen to it, in order to fuss over Eleanor.
“Hey, kiddo,” he coos, chucking the baby under the chin. It always makes Laura smile - Saul Tigh, fierce disciplinarian XO, reduced to a typical cooing adult when confronted with a baby. “You looking forward to a bit of food? Bit of meat’ll beef you up in no time.”
“Come on Saul, you know you can’t feed her solids yet,” Ellen tells him.
“Oh, hush woman. Birdie needs protein if she’s gonna be a boxer like her daddy.”
There is a tense silence for a moment, before Kara leans in. “Colonel, you gonna get that food through here any time soon? Army can’t fight on an empty stomach.”
“Ah, shut your trap Starbuck,” he growls, “if you’re so keen to get fed, then why don’t you help cook?”
“You know I’m no good at that, XO!” she replies, all sincere. “Besides, you look so good in that pinny,” she adds, with her biggest shit-eating grin.
“Get out of here,” he drawls, eyes wrinkled with amusement despite himself. The last of the food is put on a plate, and he and Ellen carry it through on a few trays. Laura stops behind for a moment, admiring the play of the light on the furniture. Eleanor shifts her head a little, tiny mouth opening and closing a fraction. Delicate arms flail, and then grip. She’s caught a hold of Bill’s tags.
Laura watches her carefully, but the baby doesn’t let go. She just lies there, quite calm, tiny little fingers clutching the metal octagons.
“Well. I suppose I have you to remember him by,” she murmurs, “but what do you have?”
Gently, she lays the baby down on the table, and then reaches behind her neck. It’s a little fiddly, but the clasp pops without too much trouble. She doubles the chain over, and then again, before slipping it over Eleanor’s head. The two metal cutouts nestle on her chest, the shortened chain fits well. The tiny fingers grip hold of them again, raising them up into the gleaming sunlight so that they flash bright for a moment, before pulling them into her mouth which determinedly gums down on them. Laura chuckles at that, before picking her back up and walking into the sitting room, where everyone is determinedly eating.
No-one says a word, but Saul’s eyes sparkle a little with what definitely aren’t tears, and Cottle nods approvingly. Everyone know what it means: this is the daughter of Bill Adama. This is the daughter of Laura Roslin.
This is our leader, someday.