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Chapter Text

She could love him, if he wasn't the stoic Commander and she weren't the former Secretary of Education playing at President of the Twelve Colonies.

Their first meeting is strained, complicated, a struggle between the last Commander of an aged battlestar and a disease-stricken school teacher working for the government; an argument about profanities, about networks and computers. She tries to tease, tries to coax him out of his shell, but he will not let her. He is all iron-clad control and she is soft, soft, soft, and it irritates him to see her try.

She blames it on his stubbornness and her own lack of focus, her thoughts so far away, on a Colony she'll never see again. She has just lost everything she had, her mother dead, her own body decaying, her job almost certainly already occupied by someone else, her lover now her ex, this time for good. If only she knew, if only she could see what was in store for humanity, she'd laugh at her loss, laugh at its meaninglessness compared to the death of billions.

He blames her, and her boss's frakking administration. He's been a Commander for nine years now, and has never had to share a decision like that with anyone. Networked computers on his ship! The whole idea of turning Galactica into a museum sickens him; he has spent enough time aboard war ships to know that they are meant to die defending the people around them and not to slowly rust and decay posing as a museum. He knows it's not her fault, but he can't help being angry at her, at her presence, at her invasion. At her beauty, her eloquence, her obvious intelligence. Had it been Adar who had stepped onto his ship, he would have told him to stay the hell out of his way and been done with it. But it is not Richard Adar in the guest quarters of his old girl, it is Laura Roslin.

Laura Roslin, who is the first to clap after his speech, and probably the only one who really understands it, maybe even better than he himself does.

Laura Roslin, who convinces him to run, to save humanity from extinction instead of throwing them all into a blind hunt for revenge that would have cost the last few people they had left.

Laura Roslin, who does not hesitate to call him on his lie about Earth, and promises to keep his secret.

Laura Roslin, who is now suddenly the President of the Colonies.

"So you'll be in charge of the fleet, military decisions stay with me?"

"Yes." This is the only way they'll get through this.

"Then I'll think about it. Madam President."

He extends his hand, she takes it. A shaky alliance met on the common ground of the survival of 50,298 people. It will have to do. But for the first time, she notices there's more to him than the leader of a battlestar. She sees the human side of William Adama, and knows that he will hold on to his humanity, and make her do the same.

She could love him, if he wasn't the stoic Commander and she weren't the former Secretary of Education playing at President of the Twelve Colonies.

Chapter Text

She could love him, if not for the obvious lack of trust between them.

"Madam President, good evening."

She is surprised to see him here. Of course he would have been there somewhere during the official bit of the evening, but this, this is a party. And Commander Adama does not attend parties.

"I thought you hated these things."

"Actually, he hates protocol pomp and all that."

"It's Colonial Day, where else would I be? I'm a patriot."

"He's making a gesture, trying to make you feel like the President."

"You really are, aren't you?"

This is not a gesture, and she knows it. This is genuine interest.

"Doctor Baltar. Interesting choice."

His tone tells her he does not approve, but then again, neither does she.

"I figured, the devil you know..."

And an insane scientist would make a much better President than a convicted terrorist if anything were to happen to her before the elections. She refuses to think about the cancer. Not yet, she still has some time left.

"Politics. As exciting as war. Definitely as dangerous."

"Though in war, you only get killed once. In politics, it can happen over and over."

And it did, it happened to her, but she is the only one alive that remembers how Richard all but held a metaphorical gun to her head to force her to resign. But Richard is dead now, and she is alive, against all odds, and she holds his post. She almost laughs at the bittersweet irony of fate.

"You're still standing."

"So are you."

"And I can dance."

Humorous disbelief is etched on her face, but as she moves to the dance floor with him, it turns into delighted surprise, laced with a heavy dash of weariness.

Not long ago, she had suspected him of being a Cylon, an enemy. Leoben's words had shaken her to the bone, had made her worst nightmares come true. William Adama, a Cylon. The mere thought still makes her skin crawl. Her relief when Baltar had cleared him had been monumental, a giant weight lifted off her shoulders. Someone to share the burden of humanity with, someone who understands, knows what it is like to be leading the last remnants of a once flourishing civilisation. Someone who might be a friend, one day. The Lords know she does not have many left of those. A priest, a Presidential aide, a military advisor; all close, but none of them quite friends. He could be, one day.

But she has always been prone to doubt. William Adama, a Cylon. Their growing relationship had taken serious damage, and she is still struggling to find a way back in, a way back onto the road to mutual trust they had been on. But as she dances with him, she realises he has just given her an entrance, has just taken the first step. She knows he is weary, too, but he is man enough, Commander enough, to let go of his worries and to fight his fear. For her, for them, for humanity.

William Adama, a Cylon. The tiny spark of doubt remains.

He feels her relax in his arms as they move together, and wonders where her thoughts are.

They have not had much time to talk since the Tylium supply mission, since Ellen Tigh, since the attacks, and he knows they will have to remedy that fact sooner or later, if they are to work together. He has not forgotten how much her betrayal, her lack of trust, had hurt him. Not hurt the Commander, but Bill. The Commander understands, the Commander agrees on the need for proof, the need for certainty. That was why he had her tested next. But Bill, Bill still has not come to terms with Laura's lack of trust.

He wonders when he started to think of her that way, to think of them in abstracts rather than in facts.

He knows he caught her by surprise by asking her to dance, but he had seen that glimmer of sadness in her eyes earlier, and had not even waited for his mind to step in with interjections about propriety and lack of distance. He cannot figure out why he asked her, though, what his mind (heart) hopes to accomplish. He suspects she is as lonely as he is (or would be, if either of them had the time or the energy to notice their loneliness after a day filled with work). She has been the President for several weeks now, a leader (much like himself), a teacher, a lifeline; and he knows what she has sacrificed for it: She has not been a woman since the attacks, has not felt beautiful, has not even so much as thought about the possibility of spending the rest of her life without someone she loves. He sees it all in her eyes, and he has the sudden urge to make it go away, but he also sees something else, and when he finally recognises it for what it is, he falters in his steps for half a second.

He sees fear. He sees doubt.

He sees doubt in Laura Roslin's eyes and knows it is directed at him, even though she tries to hide it, forces a smile onto her face and averts her eyes, but he has already seen it, knows it's there, and wonders how long it will take until she fully trusts him. And wonders if that day will ever come.

She could love him, if not for the obvious lack of trust between them.

Chapter Text

She could love him, if they were not carefully rebuilding what was left of their relationship and, along with it, restoring fleet-wide unity.

It's ironic, really, what it took to get them to this place. The almost complete annihilation of the human race, a voyage of billions of miles through dark space, a deathly disease, two nearly fatal bullets, a betrayal; and here they are, the leaders of what is left of humanity, sitting under a tarp on a planet abandoned by their ancestors many centuries earlier, with their makeshift family, old friends and foes surrounding them, and the smell of rain hanging heavily in the air.

"You interfered with a military mission, and you broke your word to me."

"It's the second part that really bothers you, isn't it?"

They both know it's the truth, but Bill is surprised at how well she can read him already. He chooses not to reply; the answer is obvious, anyway. He has never dealt well with personal disappointments, and while Laura is an exception to many rules in his life, this is not one of them. But he sees that they will have to come to terms with what happened, they will have to forgive and maybe even forget. And he is humble enough to offer her a way in.

"Laura, I forgive you."

"Thank you, Bill."

She accepts his feelings, his need to tell her that he does not carry a grudge against her for what she did, and she could not be happier about it. But she needs him to understand that she would do it all again in a heartbeat, would not hesitate to divide the fleet for a cause she felt was important.

"I didn't ask for your forgiveness."

Of course, he thinks, and huffs silently. But to his own surprise, it does not bother him to learn that she does not regret her actions. On the contrary, even, he finds himself seeking comfort in that fact that she is strong enough to face him, to stand up to him, even now. Especially now. A slight grin grows on his face.

"Well, you have it anyway."

She hears closure in his words, and sees peace in his eyes.

"Lieutenant Thrace says that there are survivors on the Colonies. Back on Caprica, there are people fighting against the Cylons every day. They're fighting for their homes, their future."

His first thought is one of happiness. People. Survivors! Something to be added to the number on the whiteboard on Colonial One. But then he remembers the 47,855 people left (he'd memorised the number before he left for Kobol, guessing that she wouldn't have had a chance to look at it before her escape to this planet, and he knows how much it means to her), and he realises they will not be able to return to each Colony and rescue the survivors. The cost would be too high, and he can tell she agrees by the way her shoulders drooped when she broached the topic.

"I see."

"Doesn't that give you a pause? Maybe your impulse the day the Cylons attacked was right. Maybe we should have stayed and fought for our homes. Maybe the President of the Colonies should have stayed with her people."

Fighting for your home is not an option when you only have so few people left, he thinks, but does not bother to voice the thought, because she already knows that they all would have died if he hadn't listened to her back then. All of them, every single one.

"I didn't come here for this. I didn't come here to navel gaze or to catalogue our mistakes. We made a decision to leave the Colonies after the attacks. We made that decision. It was the right one then, it's the right one now. 'Cause every moment of every day since then is a gift."

He needs for her to stop second-guessing her decisions, to stop doubting their choice. Their choice, not hers alone. She might have been the driving force behind it, but he would have never done what he had if he had not truly believed it was the right decision.

"From the gods." No, Laura. He does not believe in the gods. But much like Billy, he now believes in her.

"No, from you. For convincing me that I should go. I would be dead. My son would be dead." Everyone would be dead. "What ever else the cost, I won't second guess that outcome."

He is finally at the point where he trusts her completely and without hesitation. Now all it takes is for her to arrive at that place, too. She has to have faith in her own decisions, even more so than in their joint ones. The people need that faith. The people need their President.

And their President needs a map to Earth, and he has long decided he will do everything he can to help her find exactly that.

He reverently runs his hand over Elosha's (now Laura's) copy of the Pythian Prophecies, and hands her the book.

"I think it's time we go find this... tomb of yours."

She smiles at him then, an honest, almost happy smile that has him grinning, too, and shoots a pang of joy through him, along with the certain knowledge that they will be alright.

His speech surprises her in its strength that defies its simplicity, and it is completely and utterly him.

"We have struggled since the attacks, trying to rely on one another. Our strength and our only hope as a people is to remain undivided. We haven't always done all we could to ensure that."

She relishes in the fact that he no longer blames her, but joins her in taking responsibility for their actions. He no longer sees them as two opposite forces, but instead as a unity. It is then, at that very moment, that she knows they will get through everything; as long as he is the Commander of the fleet and she is their President, they will win, no matter what lies ahead.

"Many people believe that the scriptures, the letters from the gods, will lead us to salvation."

But not you, Bill Adama, she muses. He picked her to believe in, and that knowledge fills her with joy.

"Maybe they will. But The gods shall lift those who lift each other. And so, to lift us all, let me present once again the President of the Colonies, Laura Roslin."

She steps forward while the people behind her clap quietly. When she reaches the podium, she whispers a silent "Thank you" to him and expects him to take her place in the front of the large group, but instead, he starts clapping. It is slow, but loud, commanding, pulling people in. His subordinates slowly fall into line as the speed of his claps increases, and by the time he has joined the crowd, there is cheering and whistling in the entire hangar bay.

She laughs and blushes slightly, but feels happier than she has in months. She is back with her people, who are as glad to see her as she is to see them, and Bill Adama has just given her the greatest gift, in front of his entire family: his support in all things yet to come. In the face of everything they have lost, the trust of this one man makes her feel strangely humble, but she rejoices in every second of it.

They have made it this far, from the destruction of their home worlds to this bond of trust, and she laughs at the chances before she starts her speech to the people of Galactica.

She could love him, if they were not carefully rebuilding what was left of their relationship and, along with it, restoring fleet-wide unity.

Chapter Text

She could love him, if she was not dying.

Every breath is pain, every movement sends another jolt of it through her body, every working hour turns into a cacophony of aching joints, sore muscles and tender flesh. There is no grace in dying. But even if there was, she would not want it, would not want to be spared one second of suffering. She is the Dying Leader, and she will be worthy of the title.

Billy has not left her side for days now, but his persistence no longer surprises her. He has been her Billy, her faithful, loyal Billy from the start, and even more so after their return from Kobol. She wishes he was older, for she would be able to put the burden of the Presidency into capable hands. But he is so young, too young still, for such a task. One day...

She knows she will not live to see that day, to see him come into his own, become the man she is sure he will be, but she has no doubt that he will shoulder every responsibility that lies ahead. Her loyal Billy...

She has written him a letter and given it to the Commander, to be handed to Billy after her death. There are so many things she wants to say to him, so much she needs him to see, but cannot tell him. It would be too resembling of a goodbye. So she trusts Bill instead, trusts him to make sure Billy knows how much he means to her.

Bill... She has started to lean on him more and more, and he has caught her every step of the way since the fleet was reunited.

"I have good days and bad days, but don't look so worried, I'm not dying today."

The croakiness of her breaths and the pallor of her skin tell quite a different story, and she knows he notices both.

"Sorry."

"What can I do for you?"

The glasses are back in place, the President's trademark. She is all Roslin now, no longer Laura.

"You were right about Cain." As always. "Pegasus had a civilian fleet with her. Fifteen ships. Cain stripped them. For parts, supplies, ... people."

The mere thought sickens him, and he has had to make horrible decisions in the past, too.

"I wish I could say I was surprised, but it's who she is. She's playing for keeps, you've gotta do the same."

The truth in her words stings, and her conviction should not surprise him anymore, but it does.

"What's gotten into you? You've become so bloody-minded."

"I know that as long as Cain lives, your survival is at risk. I know it."

The cough that follows makes his heart drop into his stomach. What did you expect, Bill? She is dying, after all. He tries to silence that voice in his head and helps her gulp down a mouthful of water, and eases her back onto her pillow.

"What can I get you?"

Not Can I get you anything?, because she would simply decline, a sign that she has given up. He cannot bear to see her do that, so he does not give her the opportunity to. She wouldn't have, he realises when she replies, humour in her tone and words.

"A new body. Perhaps one of those young Cylon models from the resurrection ship."

Her eyes light up, the flame of life flaring up inside of her again, and he can't help but notice how beautiful she still is, even now, so close to dying. Death might be ugly, but Laura Roslin will never be.

"I can't see you as a blonde." A truth, for he wouldn't want to have her any other way.

"You'd be surprised."

He likes her this way, relaxed enough to tease him, likes it (her) too much for it to be decent or healthy, especially now that her body is giving up, giving in to the cancer that violates her cells.

Losing her will break him. The Commander will survive, will carry on, lead the Fleet to Earth, but Bill, Bill will die inside. He cares for her more deeply than he will ever admit (even to himself), but he is not so far in denial not to acknowledge that watching her die, slowly, painfully, is the hardest thing he's ever had to do.

He holds out his hand, offers it to her in friendship and companionship. He will be there, until the end. Her fingers are soft against his palm, her grip weaker than he remembers it from the few times they have shaken hands. But there is an underlying power, a hidden strength, not just in her fingers, but in all of her, that will only fade with her last breath.

It gives him hope.

She feels weak, more fragile than ever before, especially now, at the end of another day brimming with paperwork and meetings. Finally, finally she can let her guard down, now that the press is gone and the only ones around are Billy and the Commander, she can let them see the sick woman underneath the Dying Leader.

"How are you feeling?"

She almost laughs at the irony of the question, would laugh, if not for the sincerity in his eyes.

"I could sleep for about a year. But you, however, do not have that luxury, because you have a new job. Billy."

Her aide hands her a black box, and she can see Bill already knows what is inside it.

"It took a little while to find that jeweller."

"Thank you." She is starting to feel better, and suspects it has everything to do with the company she's keeping. She can't help but smile, her words laced with humour as she continues to speak.

"Rumour has it that I know very little about military protocol, but I do believe that someone who commands more than one ship is called an Admiral. Congratulations, Admiral Adama."

He is deeply touched by her gesture, it shows in his features, his movements, his voice.

"Thank you, Madam President. Thank you, Billy. I... umm... I never gave up hope. I just stopped trying to get these a long time ago."

There is understanding in her eyes. They have stopped so many things since the attacks. Some people, like Admiral Cain, have stopped considering the human factor behind their decisions, some have stopped trying to push forward, some have stopped hoping. The latter is the worst of all, she thinks. Without hope, what is left? Without hope, where do you go? She needs people to have hope, even when she's gone — especially when she's gone —, but above all, she needs Bill to have hope. He has to lead them to Earth, to give them direction. He has to have hope if he wants to succeed, if humanity is to survive.

"Just goes to show you, Bill. Never give up hope."

"Same goes for you, Laura."

And as always, he throws her own advice back to her. But it means more. He has hope, but he needs her to have it, too. Hope that they'll go on, hope that they will reach Earth, hope that she'll survive to see it.

She swallows and averts her eyes. She cannot give him that.

With a mumbled "Alright", she tries to stand, but Bill is quick, too quick, his strength supporting her, holding her up. And then he surprises her by titling her face towards his, his fingers carefully placed under her chin.

His mouth moves closer and meets hers in a soft kiss that tells epics of friendship and respect and hints (just barely) at love.

She looks at him quizzically, wants to understand his intentions, to read his thoughts. She gets neither, but knows all the same when he lets her see his feelings, in his eyes, so plain to see, and just for her.

He will miss her, and he starts to smile when she does. The moment is too short, but leaves her happier than anything else has in a long time, and she thanks him with a soft squeeze of his arm.

Hope.

She could love him, if she was not dying.

Chapter Text

She could love him, if they were not separated by miles and miles of space and morality.

"You tried to steal an election?"

Laura can hear the disbelief, the shock, in every syllable, every letter, and it makes her heart ache to know he thinks of her this way.

"Yes, I did. And I got caught. But Gaius Baltar cannot become President of the Colonies, Bill, it cannot happen."

He won't leave it at that, they both know he won't. Because he can't. He has to know everything she does.

"Laura, I don't want him as President either, but—"

"He's working with the Cylons. I saw him just before the attack on Caprica with a copy of the tall, blonde Cylon woman, the same model who accused Baltar of treason before disappearing from Galactica."

"What the hell are you saying? Why didn't you say something before this?" Why don't you trust me with things like this?

"Because I didn't remember seeing him with that woman until I remembered it when I was dying. I know how that sounds but it's real, the same way Kobol is real, and the Tomb of Athena is real, and the map to Earth is real. Baltar is working with the Cylons." Because you didn't believe me the first time.

But if there is anyone left in the universe who will believe her on this, it's him.

"Even if that's true, you have no proof."

Her heart aches again at his choice of words. Even if that's true.

"No, I don't."

Proof. She needs no proof. She knows it's true, she knows what she saw; no matter if it was a Chamalla-induced vision or a real memory, she knows it's true. And she had hoped he would believe her, and now his lack of trust weighs more heavily on her shoulders than the knowledge that she has rigged the election; it forces her down into her chair (no longer my chair, she can't keep the bitterness from her thoughts), no longer able to stand upright in front of him.

"Do we steal the results of a democratic election or not, that's the decision. Because if we do this, we're criminals. Unindicted maybe, but criminals just the same." We. You are not alone in this, Laura.

"Yes, we are." I am not alone in this.

He is in this with her, he'll protect her, do everything it takes, everything she asks of him, but he wants her to be sure, wants President Roslin to consider Laura's point of view.

"You won't do it. We've gone this far, but that's it."

"Excuse me?" She all but forces the words out of her mouth.

"You try to steal this election, you'll die inside. Likely move your cancer right to your heart."

He is wrong. She would do it, in a heartbeat. Laura wouldn't, but President Roslin would.

The smart thing for her people, that is what it has always been about. She swore to protect them with every fibre of her being (...with every fibre of my being. — shaky, but oh so determined, she remembers it so clearly), and she will, she would, no matter what.

But here's Bill, and he will not let her do this.

"People made their choice. You're gonna have to live with it."

"It's the wrong choice."

Her voice is now merely a whisper, her throat constricted with emotion. Her people, her people, have decided against her, despite everything, after she had taken on the burden of leading them to Earth, no matter how high the cost, no matter how personal the sacrifice.

"Yes, it is."

She wonders how he can be so calm, so indifferent to the outcome of this election. But when she meets his eyes, she sees not indifference, but morality. He will not let her do this, for her own sake. Not for humanity, not for the people, not for President Roslin, but for Laura.

Both Bill and the Admiral know that President Roslin can stand her ground, can make tough calls where they are needed and will not hesitate to sacrifice parts of herself to save humanity from damnation. But Laura, Laura is different. Laura does not wish to be responsible for annihilating democracy, for abandoning the government's first and main principle.

Bill (and only Bill, only ever Bill) can see the struggle, can see President Roslin fighting for dominance, but Laura refuses to relinquish her position, her hold on her own principles and moral views.

In the end, Laura has the higher ground, but only just, and Bill shivers at the thought of the outcome of her inner turmoil had he not been there. (He is certain President Roslin would have won.)

"Alright. Alright, alright."

A tear runs down her cheek, and he almost gets up to wipe it away, her loud exhale the only thing that shakes him out of his reverie.

Laura wipes the tears away herself, a heavy burden lifted from her shoulders (her heart); she almost smiles.

"So that's it. We just give it up?" Everything we've been fighting for. "Just like that?"

"The battle perhaps, but not the war."

She wishes she had his confidence.

It does not take long for the Cylons to arrive, and that is the final straw that tells her she should have gone ahead with stealing the election.

Their government hardly deserves the name, Baltar a puppet of his own vanity, and now this. An occupation.

The fleet has jumped away.

Not a day goes by that she does not curse Bill for his interference, not a day that she does not wish to just be back in space, back with the fleet, back on the run.

Being on the run, no matter how tremendous the fear, no matter how frightening the uncertainty, is a thousand times better that this; being watched by the enemy every second of every day, not knowing when (and if —her heart weeps) Galactica and Pegasus will return, their only hope people — human beings! — strapping bombs to their chests and blowing themselves up; hunger, starvation, detention, torture...

Not a day goes by that she does not curse Bill for his principles.

She could love him, if they were not separated by miles and miles of space and morality.

Chapter Text

She could love him, if not for the pleasant dull of the weed they smoked and the certainty of his departure back into space.

"Didn't expect to find you playing in the sand."

Finally. He has been waiting too long to see her again, and watching her sit down next to him fills him with a happiness he had not thought himself capable of anymore.

"It's not sand, it's alluvial deposits. This used to be the river mouth."

"And you just had to take off your shoes and play in the alluvial deposits. How romantic."

There's a playfulness in her voice that, mirrored by the smile on her face, encourages him to let his eyes wander over her body, to be more Bill and less Admiral. And why wouldn't he? This is Laura, after all. No longer President, just Laura.

"That's a nice colour on you."

She fiddles with her red camisole that matches the skirt she's wearing. He suddenly realises he has never seen her in bright colours. Always dark greys, blacks, plain white, the occasional navy-blue, but never anything vibrant.

"Thank you."

They sit in silence for a moment, rejoicing in simply being together.

"It's good to see you, Laura."

It's true, he has missed her ever since she left the fleet and moved down here.

"You too, Bill."

She puts her hand on his arm and squeezes slightly, and he knows she missed him, too. He turns his head to the right and meets her sparkling eyes. She is alive with laughter and joy, and when she starts grinning, he cannot stop himself from smirking along.

"You say this stuff grows around here?"

If he was not so high, he'd laugh at how ridiculous they must look to everyone who might be watching: The Admiral of the fleet and the former President of the Colonies smoking New Caprica's finest weed. Laura nods.

"In the mountains north of here, there's this little stream that comes down into this lake. The water's so clear it's like looking through glass. I'm thinking of building a cabin."

She looks at him expectantly, as if she's trying to challenge him to say something, or to ask whether she'd like to have some company in that cabin of hers, and he knows for as long as he lives, he will never forget this moment or the look on her face.

"It's good." Good weed. A good day. A good idea.

"Hmm... It is good."

Non-committal comments that say so much more than Bill and Laura seem to be able to. But there's still time, he thinks, and takes another sip of his drink.

"Back on Colonial One, I grew so tired of looking at the stars through the window. And now at night, I go out and stare. Stare..."

What she does not say is that it's not the stars she's staring at. Her attention is dulled by the leaves she's smoking and she only catches half of the lyrics when Bill starts singing next to her.

"Got a woman by a stream, gonna show her all my dreams."

The last few notes are even more off-key than the rest of his song, which triggers a throaty giggle she cannot suppress.

"What the hell is that?"

She wants nothing more right now than to know what made William Adama — the highest ranking military officer left in the universe — burst into song.

"A pilot friend of mine used to sing it in the cockpit all the time. What was his name? — Juan."

As suddenly as she started laughing before, she stops now, the giggle replaced by a content smile.

"Juan... It's nice."

"Juan Calvin."

They spend another moment not talking, and she is surprised how easy and comfortable the silence between them is. She remembers times when everything was so much harder and more difficult between her and Bill, when all they did required such an effort. But not now, she muses, and silently wishes for this night never to end. She would not mind doing this until the end of their lives, lying next to him on some sandbags while the rest of their sparse civilisation was celebrating. It's a good day. If only he didn't have to leave...

"Is this really it, Bill? Is this how we're going to spend all the rest of our days?"

She feels him move his head and knows he's looking at her face to try to read her mind, but she does not say anything else, only hums. She has her answer.

Laura has turned to lie on her right side, her head rests on his shoulder and her hand is placed on his chest. She has not been this comfortable since the last night in her bed on Caprica.

"Maybe we should just enjoy this."

Enjoy being together like this, without any burdens and responsibilities keeping us apart. She does not know why she said it; she blames her boldness on the weed they smoked earlier.

"I am."

"No, no, I mean, enjoy being here on this planet, as long as it lasts. I mean, maybe the Cylons come back, maybe they don't, but for now, right now, we've got a break. Maybe we should embrace it, live the life that we've got while we've got it. And embrace this world, and this life, see what that brings us."

Make the most of what we have. Like this moment. She wouldn't trade it for anything, and part of her wishes they were both sober right now. But she just smiles and cuddles closer to him, contenting herself with the hope that what she's currently thinking of has just been postponed, that it will happen one day.

"I've got people that wanna get off the ship and move down here."

She has been expecting that all along, and no matter how much she sometimes misses the safety of Galactica, the comfort of an enclosed space, the certainty that Bill is only ever a Raptor ride away, she understands the people he is referring to and their need for fresh air, warm sun and open skies, the freedoms only settlement can offer.

"Can't say I blame them. I mean, what are you going to do? Are you going to keep them up there, like prisoners, running around in circles, all night, all day, waiting for the apocalypse?"

That's not living, Bill. Not with an alternative like this.

"The apocalypse has happened once before."

She senses his reluctance to let his crew (his family) disband in his voice and in the way his shoulders have tensed, and she hopes that he will learn to let go of all the responsibilities one day, that he will be able to ignore the weight of the world on his shoulders at least for a few precious heartbeats. He needs this reprieve more than anyone.

"Yeah. And there was nothing you could do to stop it, Bill. Not then, not now. I mean, let's get real... Let's get real. The Cylons come back, we're dead. Disease strikes, we're dead. Earthquake, volcano, hurricane. Today, tomorrow, five years from now. And it's..." —not important where we are. It could happen on this planet, on Galactica, on Earth... "And you know what I say? Life's a bitch and then you die."

Laura notices just how high she really is and starts to chuckle when Bill does. But no matter how impaired her coherency might be, her point is still valid.

"No! No, no. I'm serious. I think that... I think we should all look at every moment of every day from now on as borrowed time. And people should live the lives that they wanna live before it's over." Like you and me, right now. "Let's stop spending the little time we have left here worrying about when it's gonna end."

The last words are barely more than a whisper as she realises just how much her entire tirade applies to her and Bill and their relationship with all its unspoken feelings and unfulfilled desires.

She turns her face upwards to find him looking at her, and how easy would it be to just lean forward now and kiss him, and see where it leads us, but she doesn't. She returns his smile with one of her own, cuddles even closer and enjoys the warmth radiating from under his uniform. Today, tomorrow, five years from now.

All in good time.

She could love him, if not for the pleasant dull of the weed they smoked and the certainty of his departure back into space.

Chapter Text

She could love him, if not for those frakking responsibilities holding him back.

"I'm glad you stopped by, I have something for you. This was given to me by one of the colonists down on New Caprica, and I forgot about it until Tory found it in a pile of old clothes."

"I have a weakness for mystery."

"'Blood Runs At Midnight'."

"Ever read 'Dark Day'?"

"Don't let the title fool you, it's a pretty good mystery. I think you'll like it. And it's not a loan, it's a gift."

"It's a gift. Never lend books."

She turns away with a smile and resumes packing her bag while the memories of both the first book he'd given her and their shared night on New Caprica are rushing though her. They do not talk about the hours they spent together on those sandbags outside her tent, under a sky so clear she would have been able to count millions of stars, but she thinks about it and wonders if he does the same. This time, she gets an answer.

"D'you ever think about the times much on New Caprica?"

The mere name of that planet (- even the voice in her head pronounces the word with disgust -) still makes her sick, most of the memories it triggers stretching from entirely unpleasant to outright torturous. But not that one day, that one evening, the one Bill is referring to.

"I try to think about the good times, yes, I do."

She leans against the table.

"One in particular stands out in my mind. You were wearing a really bright, red dress. Said you wanted to build a cabin."

Ah, the dress, she smiles. Of course he remembers that. She vividly recalls his reaction to her that day; the way his eyes had raked over her body, blatant approval written across his features.

"It was Baltar's Groundbreaking Ceremony. I got a little silly that night."

Silly? She admits to herself that silly might not be the right word. Go ahead, say it. You were completely stoned. She shrugs (inwardly). Why shouldn't she allow herself some moments of freedom, too?

She notices his disappointment and wonders where it came from. Before she has a chance to ask, though, he comes to a decision and continues their conversation.

"You ever wonder what would've happened if the Cylons hadn't come back?"

Bill Adama, where are you going with this? He seems determined to talk about this, and she'd be damned if she missed her chance to get him to open up to her.

"I think given Baltar and the terrain, we couldn't have made a go of it. - What about you? Do you think you would have stayed on Galactica, or do you think you would have settled?"

The ball's in your court now, Bill. She hopes, prays, that he won't back down again; she wants to see this through, wants to know what to think (and feel) around him.

"It's pretty hypothetical, isn't it?"

"It is. Until it isn't."

She means it, tells him that it's only hypothetical as long as he lets it be, but she cannot stop the laughter that bubbles up inside her when she realises how ridiculous she must have sounded.

"Did I really just say that?"

There's a content smile on his face when he responds (an answer that isn't really one, to a question that was rhetorical, anyway), and she wishes he would smile like this more often.

"It's worth just seeing you laugh like that. - We've been at war so long sometimes we forget what we're fighting for. Raise our kids in peace, enjoy one another's company. Live life, as people again."

She tilts her head slightly, both confusion and understanding brightening her eyes, as she tries to coax him further out of his shell. He was carefree, unguarded, that evening under the stars, she suddenly remembers.

"Like that night on New Caprica; that's really what we are talking about here now, isn't it?"

"That, and... other times."

"So if the Cylons hadn't come back...?"

Her voice trails away on purpose; she does not need to elaborate, the question is out in the open. Come on, Bill. What would you have done?

"But they did."

He steps closer and she tilts her head again to be able to look into his eyes, where she sees his answer seconds before he voices it.

"We have certain responsibilities."

"Yes we do, sir. And... uh... I will be back in a few days, and if you'd like, we can... talk more about that night."

She turns away with a smirk plastered on her face. It is not anger she feels at his reply, not even disappointment. She knows now that he thinks about it, that he considers the what ifs that have been occupying her mind for weeks. But she needs him to be clear on where she stands, too. Already on her way out of the room, she turns back to him, his name rolling softly off her tongue to get his attention.

"The answer's yes. I absolutely would have built the cabin." With you.

The two words dangle at the end of her sentence, audible to them both, even though she hasn't spoken them aloud.

As she leaves the room, she catches the unguarded half-smile that forms on his face, and that sight is the last thing she sees of him that day.

She could love him, if not for those frakking responsibilities holding him back.

Chapter Text

She could love him, if his betrayal didn't hurt so much.

It's the umpteenth day of the trial and the leaders of the fleet are tired of the farce, of pretending they believe Gaius Baltar deserves to be heard.

Bill, in front of his mirror, shaves until the flicker of the lights distracts and he cuts himself. He mutters a curse and tries to get the bleeding to subside, when he is interrupted by the ringing of his intercom.

"Yes."

"Yell at me."

He almost grins; he likes her being the first he speaks to in the morning. Not every morning, of course (even though he certainly wouldn't mind that, he admits this much to himself), but at least once in a while.

"I don't want to get out of bed."

The words make him worry instantly, having never heard them from her before. She has had bad days, even without the cancer, but she'd always found a reason to get out of bed. But he understands where her sentiments come from, he feels the exact same way. The trial, the exposure of her cancer by his own son (he still curses Lee for that, and he adds it to the list of things that will never fully be resolved between them again), the treatments that she will be starting soon. It affects him almost as much as her.

"Well, you called the wrong number. I was just thinking about going back to bed."

"You feeling okay?"

Shouldn't I be the one asking you that, Laura?

"Says the cancer patient. Yeah, I'm fine. I just cut myself. How are you doing?"

He wants to know what's going on, and, above all, how he can make it better. (He'd do everything, but he's not ready to confess that yet, to anyone, least of all her.) He presses his towel to his throat, applying pressure in order to stop the blood.

"I don't wanna face them. I don't wanna face any of them. I just wanna stay in bed all day and sleep."

Her reply would make him worry even more than he already does if not for the underlying humour in her voice. She'll be alright, and she just called because she wanted to speak to him, to let him cheer her up.

"I think I stopped the bleeding. — If you still need to be yelled at, I think I can give you some volume."

"Okay. All right, give it your best shot."

She really is in a good mood today, he realises, and it makes him happy to know she called him of all people. To talk to. To joke with.

"Get out of that bed!" The second he says it, he knows it's weak. She'll never be satisfied with that.

"That's not your best shot."

He takes a deep breath and puts on his most commanding voice.

"Get your fat, lazy ass out of that rack, Roslin!"

Her giggle is soft, but loud enough for him to hear. A smile grows on his face; he loves to hear her laugh, loves everything about it. The way her voice pitches higher, the sparkle in her eyes, the simple fact that she has a reason to. And he revels in being the one to have brought about one of her giggles.

"Yes, sir. Okay, sir. Anything you say, sir."

She purrs the last "sir", and he knows it's on purpose, knows she does it just to tease him. The "Thank you" that follows is honest, though. He made her laugh and she is grateful. Not everything has to be difficult or filled with hidden meaning. Thank you.

"Don't let 'em see you sweat, Laura."

Good luck, be careful, he says, but thinks (means) Don't let them get to you; I care about you more than anyone, and hangs up.

"Gaius Baltar, after carefully weighing the evidence, this tribunal, in a vote of three to two, finds you not guilty."

The sentence echoes in her head, she hears it over and over and over again, "Gaius Baltar — not guilty", and "evidence" and "vote of three to two" and "Gaius Baltar — not guilty".

"'Gaius Baltar is innocent.' Just the sound of that makes my skin crawl."

She paces back and forth, has done nothing but since the verdict. She feels the need to run, to let her feet carry her wherever they might, as long as it's away from Baltar, from the press, away from Lee. But she's the President, and she won't. She goes to Bill instead.

"Not guilty is not the same as innocent."

Of course not. But she knows people forget too easily, knows that in most people's heads, the "not guilty" will change to "innocent" soon enough, and all will be forgotten.

"It must've been particularly difficult for you. What, you just... couldn't get the other two guys to budge?"

He looks directly into her eyes, and she sees guilt there. Guilt, and conviction. (He believes in what he did, always has and always will. It should make her feel relieved, but it doesn't.)

"You voted for his acquittal, didn't you?"

"I hate to say it. Defence made their case, the prosecution didn't."

She can't believe, doesn't want to believe, that he'd do this, that he would betray her like this. After all they've been through together. After what she has been through on New Caprica, without him, while he was in space, on Galactica! Baltar's lousy government, the never ending cycle of detention and fear. Just because Gaius frakking Baltar didn't have the guts to stand up to the Cylons when they arrived. She leans closer to him, puts her hand on his arm, and speaks slowly; he needs to understand.

"Gaius Baltar is a traitor. We both know that. Regardless of the outcome of this trial."

No longer able to face him, not now, not anymore, she turns away, but is pulled back by his voice, the undertones that speak of apologies and beg for forgiveness.

"No one's asking anyone to forget. Or to forgive. But we have to look to the future."

It's not enough, will never be enough, and the pain changes everything. For the first time in her life, she turns away from Bill Adama.

She could love him, if his betrayal didn't hurt so much.

Chapter Text

She could love him, if not for his denial and her deflection.

She remembers death, both her mother's and her own, and does not want him to see it happen, to witness her body fall victim to this disease. She does not wish to see him suffer. She has seen what Kara's death did to him, and knows hers will be worse, for she will not return.

He is in denial, about all of it; about her, about Kara, about everything. She knows, sees it the second he enters the room she's working in (still his quarters, they feel so foreign now, almost threatening), she smells it on his breath (ambrosia, maybe, or something stronger, probably the first drink he got his hands on that wasn't water), she can hear it in the clinking of the glass and the sloshing of liquid behind her.

"You're enjoying that more than usual."

They need to talk about this, but she is frightened by the bitterness in her own voice. How did it get to this?, she wonders, but she doesn't, really. She already knows. They are too close, and yet not close enough, have been since the day he insisted she stay in his quarters for the treatments. They've been grazing, but not touching, talking, but not really saying anything, deflecting, always deflecting, and the things that remain unsaid are those that are coming back to haunt them now.

"Hair of the dog. Lee's party."

It's a poor excuse, and she does not even bother to call him on it. There are more important things to discuss.

"What do we do now? Put her on trial? Find Romo Lampkin? Take a show of hands?"

How much faith are you willing to put into her, Bill?

"I don't know."

"Follow her into an ambush?"

That's the possibility that scares her more than anything else. She cannot come to terms with Kara's sudden return from the dead, there is nothing about her story that makes sense to Laura, and she wishes Bill would see that, would recognise the threat of being lied to. But he doesn't, he sees only with his heart and not his eyes.

"She is driven."

Of course she is. The question that remains is driven by what?, Laura thinks but does not ask. Not yet.

"Yeah. You're gonna keep waltzing or are you gonna sit down and talk? What's going on? Sit."

Once he has obeyed her informal order (—she hates having to make it sound like one—), she looks at him, takes in his condition. His uniform hangs loose on his hunched shoulders, his face is distorted by the burning of the amber liquid he swallows like water. And his eyes are dark; he, too, is tired of this game, of the distance, of the focus and the lack-of-focus. Not now.

"What if she's telling the truth? She was supposed to die out there. She didn't, I can't explain it. What if she was meant to help us? And this was a—"

"A what? A miracle?" More bitterness, slicing through both of them. "Is that what you want to call this? Go ahead, say it. Grab your piece of the Golden Arrow. I want to hear Admiral Atheist say that a miracle happened."

"You shot at her and missed at close range."

Oh, Bill, she huffs. This is not a miracle, Kara's ... —she almost thinks resurrection, but stops the train of thought. She has seen miracles, and this isn't one.

"Diloxin fraks with your aim."

It'd be too easy to blame it on the treatments, like she has done with so much lately. When she again started to identify with the Sacred Scrolls, when she moved in with B— the Admiral, and now with this. But she knows it sounds more like an excuse with every minute that passes.

"So does doubt."

And as always, he knows her well enough (maybe too well), and figures out her worries before she does. Yes, she has doubts. Yes, she wants Kara to be right, to be human, to be the same old Starbuck everybody loved so much (Bill, Sam, Lee...), not the enemy. But she cannot afford to doubt, cannot afford to let feelings cloud her judgement. Not when it comes to this, the survival of her people. No.

"I pulled the trigger and I'd do it again." And I wouldn't miss this time. With or without doubts. "She put her life in front of a bullet as if it had no meaning. You drop an egg, you reach for another."

Metaphors over metaphors, they seem to be the only way of communicating they have left. She starts to suspect their method of leaving things unspoken might have worked a little too well.

"Maybe convincing you meant more to her than her own life."

Oh really? Now you're just fishing. You want to find a reason to be allowed to trust her.

"Is that your miracle? You want to talk about miracles. The very same day that a very pale doctor informed me that I had terminal cancer, most of humanity was annihilated, and I survived." Me, of all people! And just because of you, your retirement and your ship's decommissioning ceremony. "And by some mathematical absurdity, I became President." Because the forty-two ahead of me died along with billions. Forty-two people I loved and cared about. Friends, family... "And then my cancer disappeared." I shouldn't even be here, Bill. I should be dead, but I'm not. That is a miracle, and you were there, you saw it happen. "Long enough for us to find a way to Earth. — You can call it whatever you want. And now I'm dying." Again.

"Don't talk that way."

He can't bear the thought of losing her, so he pushes it away, refuses to think about it, to even consider the possibility, but instead pretends everything is normal, nothing has changed. And she lets him. She lets him because it's easy, and it is so much safer than actually broaching the elephant in the room.

"Bill. You've gotta face this. My life is coming to an end soon enough, and I am not going to apologise to you for not trusting her, and I am not— I am not going to trust her with the fate of this fleet."

She still remembers the last time someone else was in charge of their civilisation, and how horribly that ended; she has the scars to prove it. So has he...

"You are so buckled up inside. You can't take any more loss. Your son's leaving. This, me... I know it."

"No one's going anywhere", he says, taking another sip.

Tears prickle in her eyes. She doesn't know how to reach out to him anymore, how to make him face what lies ahead. She is dying, really dying this time. And if he continues pretending everything is alright, it will break him. She needs him to be prepared, prepared to watch her die, to let her go, prepared to go on alone, to lead the fleet to Earth. Without him, they don't stand a chance, it's always been this way.

"Okay. Here's the truth. This is what's going on." Hear me, Bill, hear me. "You want to believe Kara. You would rather be wrong about her and face your own demise, than risk losing her again."

But it would not be his end alone, but that of the entire fleet. The end of the human race, at the hands of one... pilot. Kara might be like a daughter to Bill, the daughter he never had, but to Laura, she has become hardly more than another face in the crowd, a mere memory, a ghost of what she was when she returned with the Arrow of Apollo.

He stares at her, her words dead-on, they have hit their target. His heart and his mind, and only she has the ability to aim at both. Only Laura...

"You can stay in the room, but get out of my head."

Their minds are too close together, their thoughts interwoven, but their bodies are too far apart. There is no balance. Their desires, needs and wants, their feelings, thoughts and fears are neatly stashed away, and the wounds of his role in Baltar's trial are still too fresh, and it is such an effort to get on with life as it is.

"You're so afraid to live alone."

He cannot lose, has never been able to, especially when it comes to loved ones. (It makes her happy and sad to know he considers her family.) He cannot let go.

"And you're afraid to die that way."

She hears him pour yet another drink into his glass, and grins bitterly, preparing for the big blow that she knows will follow.

"You're afraid that you might not be the Dying Leader you thought you were. Or that your death may be as meaningless as everyone else's."

It's not the alcohol talking, she knows this is what he honestly thinks. The only thing the alcohol did was loosen his tongue, make him say out loud what he would otherwise keep to himself.

She barely hears him leave, she is too focused on trying not to let it get to her, not to let his words ring true in her own head. If she did, she would end up doubting everything, their entire journey, the prophecies, her role in all of this, herself. Sometimes she wishes he wouldn't know her so well. They are like a married couple, they know how to comfort and where to hurt, and all they are lacking is physical intimacy.

Her glasses are back in place, she will get back to work (I will get back to work, I willgetbacktowork), and she runs her fingers through her hair to compose herself. But it doesn't feel the same, not how it usually does when she touches it, it is not the same, and she realises why when she pulls on a strand and it gives without resistance. She is losing her hair.

I am losing my hair.

It should not surprise her; she has seen it happen, but she had not thought about it yet, had been too busy with her work, the path to Earth, Bill, Kara, Lee; and now, now her hair is falling out, as if trying to prove him right, or simply just to spite her for putting poison into her veins.

She takes off her glasses and lets the tears fall freely, a hand pressed to her mouth to muffle the sobs. She doesn't want him to hear, can't bear being in the same room as him right now. She knows he would instantly feel sorry for what he said, seeing her sit here like this, with her hair clutched to her chest, but she does not want his pity. She can deal with anger, with hatred, even, but she cannot bear pity, not from him. And so she cries silently, until there are no more tears left.

She could love him, if not for his denial and her deflection.

Chapter Text

She could love him, if not for the makeshift family he has to hold together on their path to Earth.

She tiptoes from sickbay to his quarters once the tears shed for Emily have stopped, and she should feel uncomfortable walking through Galactica's hallways in nothing more than pyjamas and a bathrobe, but she doesn't. Everyone knows their President has cancer, why not let them see it first-hand? It's not like she hasn't had to expose her entire personal life before. The thought no longer causes bitterness, not since Emily, and the ship that wasn't really one to an island that was more spiritual than real. She believes in more now, and she has to tell him, or she fears she might burst.

When he answers the door (hatch, she can almost hear his voice, that chiding tone that once explained to her he would not have networked computers aboard his ship), he is clad in his own bathrobe.

"I need to talk to you."

She skips the formalities, she is here as Laura, not as the President.

"Certainly, come in."

With a "Thank you", she enters his living room heading straight ahead to take a seat.

"Can I get you some water?"

She smiles; he always remembers even tiny details, knows she wouldn't have drunk enough today, with the treatment and the paperwork keeping her too busy to spare some time for food.

"Yes."

They have made themselves comfortable on his couch, and she has told him all about the visions she shared with Emily and Baltar's new-found religion. She confides in Bill, now more than ever, and it feels completely natural to be sitting here with him like this.

"You really believe that there's something in this horse manure that Baltar's playing?"

She can hear the contempt seeping through in his voice. He hates Baltar at least as much as she does. And to think she felt betrayed by him because of his vote in the trial... It all seems so mundane now, so far away, like another lifetime; and maybe it is, maybe the experience she had with a dying woman changed her enough for two lives.

"I don't know. Something is happening here, and I don't really understand it, Bill."

She talks to him with a familiarity that would surprise an outsider, but it feels right to them, this casualness, being so close. They have made their peace with each other.

"You both had the same dream, means..."

There is something on his mind, she can tell, something other than Baltar or her vision, and she'll coax it out of him, if she has to (but she suspects it'll be easier than that; he confides in her, now, too).

"What? Talk to me. What's going on?"

"Kara comes back from the dead, I let her go off chasing her vision of Earth. Well, she's overdue." He thinks she might have been right, after all. "Lee turns in his wings. Helo, Athena, Gaeta. Will I ever see those kids again?"

His family, that's what this is all about. She knows he has long ago stopped thinking of them as his crew, his subordinates. A surrogate daughter, a son by blood and several adopted (to replace the one that died, maybe), and a friend turned enemy turned friend that he has chosen to trust. He has been working, living (loving) with all of them longer than she's known him, since before the end of the worlds, before. He is the luckiest man alive. The thought comes suddenly, without warning, and she wonders why it took her so long to realise it. He has his family, right here. Most people have lost their loved ones, all of them. Some were fortunate enough to travel with their spouses, parents, children, but everybody, every single one, has lost at least one relative in the attacks; a brother, a sister, a parent, a child. Everyone but him, he has his family right here. And he is worried about losing them like a father with his children. But she is their leader and, by extension, also their mother, and she will make sure that never happens.

"Bill, look at me. I'm right here. Right here." I'm part of your family now, too. I'll protect them. You're the only one I have left. (It is not a sad thought. Not anymore. She does not need anyone but him.) She rubs his shoulder and makes a promise that she intends to keep with all her soul (heart). "We're going to find it."

"Earth?" Earth, Salvation; there is no longer a difference.

"Together." You and me, and the children. All of us. I'll keep them safe.

"I used to think it was such a pipe dream. I used to use it as a carrot for the fleet."

She smiles and remembers, his lie about knowing where Earth was to give them hope, his resistance when she first told him about Pythia and the Sacred Scrolls, his lack of hesitation when he almost nuked the Temple of Five; but it doesn't mean anything now. They're not living for the past, and she won't start looking back. The future is too important to start cataloguing past mistakes. And she can't even quite bring herself to think of them as "mistakes". They were merely steps along the way, sidetracks, nothing more. She was there, she saw it all happen, was an eager participant in most of the incidents, and she knows they both always had the best intentions for the people. And that is all that really matters now, today. And for the future.

"What made you change?"

What made you reconsider the scriptures, what made you start having faith, Bill?

"You." His smile has a startling intensity that sweeps her along; she has never seen him this happy, and she is filled with joy when she hears him whisper the most honest thing he's ever said.

"You made me believe."

You, always you, Laura, through all of it.

Before Kobol, on New Caprica, at the Temple of Five, in the Ionian Nebula. Here, now.

Always you.

She could love him, if not for the makeshift family he has to hold together on their path to Earth.

Chapter Text

She could love him, if she only let herself.

The visions feel different this time; calm, and more peaceful. Such a change from the tense, at times even threatening opera house visions she used to have. She wanders through the empty hull of Galactica with Elosha, it all feels familiar somehow.

"What's going on? It's empty."

"It is. Feels bigger this way, doesn't it?"

"It's so quiet. It's strange."

She has never seen Galactica completely deserted, not even when she had a late meeting which kept her there until long after midnight. There was always something going on, and the complete silence astonishes her.

"A lot of things are strange."

Before she has a chance to ask what Elosha is referring to, they step into Galactica's sickbay where she sees herself lying in a bed, closer to death than to life. The sight does not scare her as much as it probably should, and it's gone after just a few seconds when her vision ends.

The next vision has the same setting, but different actors. There's Bill and Lee and Kara, and Doc Cottle who adjusts her medication.

"Don't you just hate these people?"

Elosha asks a question that Laura does not understand, but her dying counterpart answers for her.

"No." Two letters, one word, an endless struggle.

"Oh, but you don't love them either. The people in this room are the closest thing you've got to family, and you... you've been their President. Watch them try to comfort each other. At least you haven't taken that away from them... yet. You didn't rob them of their empathy. Yet. You just don't make room for people anymore. You don't love people. Is that clear enough? Practical enough for you, Madam President?"

She wants to reply, wants to tell Elosha that these people mean more to her than this, they are more to her than just people, but she cannot find the right words, and her vision dissolves again.

The third time, she knows where they are headed; Elosha walks behind her, and she leads, even though she has no wish to do so.

"Why are we doing this again? I don't want to see this again."

She does not want do see herself wither away again, not yet. It will happen soon enough, but until then, she wants to spend as much time as possible not thinking about it.

"The ancients used to say a people is only as strong as the body of its leader."

So we're here to philosophise? Alright, I can do that. She is the leader, has been since the post of President of the Colonies, along with all its power and responsibility, was thrown at her, and she accepted it without so much as a second of hesitation. She remembers slipping into the role far too easily, and having to fight for recognition. Bill's words to Lee still ring in her ear, even after all these years. "We're in the middle of a war, and you're taking orders from a school teacher?" Even with the recess period that had been forced upon her by Baltar (in which she might not have been the President, but never stopped being the leader), it's been so long, and she can't imagine her life without the office anymore.

"If I follow that thought... Are you saying that humanity died because I died? If you're my subconscious, I've gotta say you're a little full of myself."

The sarcastic reply earns her a laugh from Elosha as they move further through the dark hallways of the ship.

"Humanity didn't die because you did. The ancients, they got a lot of things wrong. The body of a people is not the same as the body of its leader. But the soul and the spirit might be."

From soul and spirit, it's only a short leap to ethics and morals, and it's not at all hard to figure out what Elosha is getting at.

"Oh I see, so you're only laying morality at my feet. Well, that's okay. I can take that. I mean, there are a lot of people who have sins far greater than mine."

She laughs, and Elosha chuckles with her. She can't even name them all, the list of people is too long, but it starts with Gaius Baltar.

"You're thinking of Gaius Baltar."

Laura suddenly wonders whether her train of through really was that obvious, or whether Elosha only knows these things because she's in her vision, and thus, in Laura's head. She doesn't have an answer, but finds herself back in sickbay, with Bill reading to her dying body.

"Then I dug into the stump and pulled rocks from the ground until my fingers bled. I collected seeds from the few fruits the island offered, and planted them in long, straight furrows, like the ranks of soldiers. When I finished, I looked at what I had done. I did not see a garden. I saw a scar. This island had saved my life, and I had done it no service."

She recognises the book, it's the one that Bill had read to her after Searider Falcon, and while the latter will always be her favourite (because it's Bill's, because she is, too), she had cherished the tale about the lonely island and its allusions that fit so remarkably well their current situation.

Elosha interrupts her thoughts: "I'm not saying Baltar's done more good than harm in the universe. He hasn't. The thing is, the harder it is to recognize someone's right to draw breath, the more crucial it is."

She sees the truth in the priestess's words, but before she can even begin to further contemplate their meaning, the jump is over.

Again the same setting, and Bill still by her side. It feels strangely comforting to know he would (will) be there until the end.

"If humanity is going to prove itself worthy of surviving, it can't do it on a case-by-case basis. A bad man feels his death just as keenly as a good man."

Laura knows what Elosha is trying to say, but Gaius Baltar does not deserve to live. He had lost that right on New Caprica, and he was acquitted. And now she knows, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that he was the cause for the original attacks, that he granted the Cylons access into Colonial defences. He gave them the key, he destroyed the Colonies, he killed billions of people. Her people. He will never get her forgiveness.

"What do you want from me here?"

"Just love someone."

Love... Presidents don't love, not in a time of war, not in a time like this. Not with the lives of the entire human race at stake. No, Presidents do not love. They fight, they lead, they suffer, but they do not love. She knows that emotions must not interfere, that the fleet, the people, are too important to be governed by a distracted President.

And love never has a happy ending. The memories resurface as the bile rises in her throat, the bitter taste of both combined reminding her why she chose to stay detached in the first place. She has lost everybody she had once loved, and Bill is struggling with his own losses, it would be cruel to add to his burdens. In the end, it only leads to pain.

"Love... Huh."

Bill whispers "Laura", and she watches as the line on the heart rate monitor goes flat. There are tears on Bill's face now, and he leans down to kiss her lips. It is only their second kiss, and she is dead, but it touches her deeply to witness the tenderness in his gesture.

"You go. You go. You go, you rest now. I'm not gonna be selfish anymore. You go. Rest."

He takes off his ring and puts it on her dead body's finger. She can almost feel it on her own hand, the heavy gold of the wedding band. It would be too large for her finger, but still warm from his, and it carries so much meaning. She knows he loves her, has loved her for a long time now. He has never said it, but it shows, in his words, his actions, in his eyes, in the way he looks at her. The only reason why he hasn't said it out loud yet is that he does not want to pressure her into saying it back. It's her choice if and when and how to change the status of their relationship. They both know he has made his decision long ago.

She wonders how he does it, where all his love comes from, and forces herself to see things from his point of view.

Bill loves too much (—a ship which will always be his girl, a fleet that could fall apart without warning, a woman who is dying that he cannot live without).

Baltar only loves himself (—a harem of women to prove his masculinity, a staff of traitors to boost his ego, a collaboration of humans and Cylons to legitimise his actions, a stock of ambrosia to hide his fear).

Three leaders, and she used to think she had found the right way. Don't let anyone close, don't lose focus. There is the people and there's Earth, and until then, you are their leader.

But now she realises that maybe, just maybe, her attempt at detachment, at objectivity, had not made her more human, more deserving of her office, but less so.

Maybe to be human is to love. Maybe to be human is to let people in. As always, she is more than willing to try.

"You lied to me."

It's not an accusation, just a fact.

"Did I?"

"I thought I was earning humanity's right to survive."

Saving Baltar had been the hardest thing she has ever done, and she hopes that it was the right choice. She hopes that he will have to pay for his sins one day. But it will not happen by Laura's hand.

"Oh!", Elosha laughs. "It's not a vending machine, Laura. You don't save a life, and then- cue the celestial trumpets, here's the way to Earth."

"I know."

She does know, now, that this was her lesson, her task. She had to save Baltar to prove herself, to set the example for their entire civilisation, past and future. She has to be worthy of survival, worthy of love, and she has to prove it like everyone else does every day. By being human, by showing compassion. By being able and willing to love.

"Jump!"

She has recognised Elosha's presence for what it is: her human side — the part of her that is Laura, not Roslin — shining through. Somehow, during all those months since she'd last seen Caprica (now nothing more than a pale memory), she has lost her balance.

"Disorienting, isn't it? All these little limping steps back."

"I like it. I'm used to it. Every jump brings us a little bit closer to home. Galactica... my home. Maybe there's something there for me."

She no longer thinks of the fleet as a makeshift living space, as something that will be abandoned as soon as they find a habitable planet, nor does she see Colonial One when she thinks of home. She sees an aged battlestar, she sees a rugged face, she sees shared rooms. Somewhere along the way, Laura had stopped staying at the Admiral's quarters and had instead moved in, had moved in with Bill like a woman moves in with a man she loves. She accepts it now.

"Maybe even closer."

She smiles but thinks it does not really matter how far away they are, how long it will take. She will get to him, and that is all that matters.

When Bill's raptor lands inside the basestar, she waits for him just like he has been waiting for her — the most recent declaration of his love.

He comes closer, and she decides to let her heart do the thinking, just this once. To be just Laura, to be just the woman that Bill adores. There are so many things she wants to tell, to share with him (and only him), and she tries to speak, but can't. Her tongue is not used to getting orders from her heart.

His hands find her arms, his grip is strong, as if trying to make sure she is really there and not just a dream, a vision, a memory.

"Missed you", he rasps, and her thoughts have finally found the direction to her mouth.

"Me too."

Bill pulls her closer, embraces her, wraps her up in warmth and solid strength, in love, and suddenly, it all falls into place. No epiphany, no celestial trumpets, just Bill and Laura and an emotional connection that goes beyond everything she has ever known.

"I love you."

It's easy because it's true, an honest revelation that should have been acknowledged months (years, lifetimes) ago.

"About time."

His answer does not surprise her (not anymore), for it is so utterly him to have known she would get to this point one day, to have known she loved him before she had even allowed herself to contemplate the possibility.

Where she saw (used to see, will never see again) only hesitation and doubt, he had simply made his choice and believed in it.

She smiles and holds him close, her heart overflowing, her tears the only outlet for this sense of freedom, this love.