queen of analogue (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
tellitslant) wrote2006-01-27 10:28 am
tellitslant) wrote2006-01-27 10:28 am
FIC: Last Night (BSG, Roslin, PG-13)
Title: Last Night
Author: Kathryne,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
tellitslant
Fandom: BSG 2003
Characters: Roslin (/Adar, /Billy, sort of)
Disclaimer: Moore's, not mine.
Spoilers: Set around 2x13, though not really plot-spoilery for it.
Thanks: tofox1013 for cheerleading services and talking about Canadian films a lot.
**
It's a concept that comes up every now and again, when you're part of a governing body that's barely two generations removed from the near-destruction of the human race and that's not exactly universally liked to boot. What would you do, if you knew the worlds were coming to their end? If the government fell, if the planet exploded, if, ha ha, the Cylons returned? The media asks the most ridiculous questions, sometimes. So Laura Roslin has considered the idea, maybe more than the average citizen.
**
Adar asked her, once. In the not-quite-real period when one term was winding down and another campaign was coming up, no one wanted to propose new legislation for fear the administration might change, but nobody could really relax either. She and Richard had stolen a weekend together, if only just beyond the city limits, needing to get away and to get outside in almost equal measures.
"You're morbid," she said mildly, kissing his bare chest before curling closer against his side.
"Not really," he replied, his hand twining in her hair absently. His palm cupped the curve of her skull familiarly, and she tipped her head back against the steady pressure. "It comes up at the end of every term, it seems. So?"
"So?"
"So what would you do?" he repeated. "If you knew disaster was going to strike tomorrow, how would you spend your last day alive?" Laura could tell by the tone of his voice that he wasn't going to let her get away with not answering.
Easing out of his embrace, she straddled his hips, lowering her body over his until the tips of her hair brushed across his collarbone. She smiled fiercely. "I'm already doing it," she whispered, and kissed him roughly.
She wasn't a politician by nature, but in her years with Adar she had learned the fine art of diversion.
**
It wasn't the truth, of course. Theirs hadn't been that sort of relationship, tender and romantic, flowers and chocolate. Part of it had to do with the need to keep it secret, of course, but a larger part had simply to do with their natures. She had loved him, yes, distractedly, comfortably; she had mourned him, when she eventually found the time. But if she had had only one day left to live, she could certainly have thought of better ways to spend it than in bed with him. She just hadn't seen the sense in telling him that.
No, though she didn't say it, even then Laura knew what she would do if she were waiting for the worlds to end. She hadn't planned out the exact details – that, she felt, would really make her morbid – but each time someone brought it up, she pieced together another segment.
She'd get up early, to watch the sunrise, she thought, and to give herself enough time to make her way out to the shore. A walk, a swim, an excellent lunch, and a chance to enjoy the light on the water one last time – it would be a simple morning. The afternoon, perhaps, she would spend cooking, glorying in the science of the kitchen, before an evening spent with good friends, good music, and good wine. And if she went to sleep at the end of the day with someone else's skin against hers, well, it could be a lovely way to go out, but she wouldn't worry over it.
When she slipped back into bed with Richard later that night, she felt no pangs of guilt over hiding her thoughts.
**
Now Laura knows that when the apocalypse truly comes, no one has time to live their last days. Her perfectly constructed fantasy day had instead been spent in negotiations and medical appointments and arguments, none of which had turned out entirely well. She doesn't regret that day, though, because if nothing else, she can remember the strength that flooded her with life.
Now Laura thinks that her last day will be all about other people instead of herself.
Now Laura has the time to carry out her last plans, because now her apocalypse creeps instead of rushes, and now she can see the slow inexorable certainty of the things she will leave undone.
**
"Billy," she calls, and again, "Billy!" when he doesn't immediately appear at the end of her couch-cum-bed. Finally he slips through the curtain, a tray of food in his hands. It's a very small tray, but it still seems like far more than Laura can conceptualize. She isn't nauseated, she isn't hungry, she is just folding slowly in on herself and collapsing the hollow places within her.
"Oh, Billy," she starts, holding a hand up in remonstration, but he sets the tray down and crosses his arms and glares at her sternly – well, as sternly as Billy gets, which isn't very, but he is trying. He is hilarious, and she feels the corners of her lips twitch with an unexpected giggle.
"Madam President," he says, very serious, "whatever you called me in here to do, um, I'm – I'm not doing it until you eat." His determination is adorable and touching, and Laura doesn't have the strength to argue with him anyways.
"All right," she says, and has the pleasure of watching him grin at the ease of her agreement. She picks up her fork and he turns away, because there are always things for him to do, and to spare her his gaze as she slowly progresses through the food. She knows that the selection on the plate must be the best that the fleet has available, but the flavours don't even seem to register. Still, perhaps she should be thankful: food on board Colonial One has never been anything beyond adequate, and if the cancer has dulled her palate, at least in this she hasn't been denied any real pleasure.
When the plate is clean, and only then, Billy returns to sit beside her. Not for the first time, she regrets having to pass him on to Baltar as if he were no more than another office fixture. It's too bad, she thinks, that she can't just take him with her. He is as much a warrior as any of the Galactica pilots, and surely there is a place in Elysium for presidential aides.
It seems as if there is always more for them to do in preparation for the transfer of power, and Laura can do less and less of it each day. Every piece of paper on her desk has a meaning and she doesn't really trust Baltar with any of them, so Billy is getting a crash course in the finer points of being the president. It's not like he doesn’t know everything she does anyways. Still, she regrets putting him in a position where he will eventually have to be ruthless. Her letter to Baltar is deliberately provocative, and she hopes Billy will pick up where Baltar lets things slide.
For once the pain waits until their agenda is cleared, thank all the gods. Billy is there with two tablets and some water almost as soon as the first spasm strikes, and she clings to his hand until it leaves her limp and exhausted.
She sags back against her pillows and Billy rises to leave, but she calls him back. She hates to ask it – he is an aide, not a nursemaid, certainly not a babysitter – but tonight she needs him. "Don't leave yet," she says. "Please," she says, hoping he'll understand.
He sits back down slowly and as she drifts off to nothingness, she feels his hand smoothing her hair off her face, his palm curving around her skull.
**
The next morning, she can't get out of bed, and Billy's name dies weak and dried-up in the back of her throat. Time doesn't seem to pass, or seems to pass too quickly, as she stares at the curtain, waiting. She imagines she sees it move so many times that when Billy actually enters, she doesn't even register it.
And then he is at her side, and he is holding her hand, and he is asking is she all right, can she hear him, he's going to go get someone, phone Doc Cottle, and his warmth fades from her fingertips. She can hear his voice dimly, the words blurring into one another as her cabin tips sideways.
And then the curtain drops and his voice is cut off and it occurs to her that that, that was her last day, that was her last perfect twenty-four hours, and she didn't get everything done and she didn't get anything done and she should be more worried about that.
His hand slips back into hers and she opens her eyes. "It's gonna be all right, Madam President," he promises, his young face painstakingly earnest and worried. She smiles and, with great effort, squeezes his fingers.
Perhaps some plans come to fruition after all, she thinks, and she waits.
Author: Kathryne,
tellitslantFandom: BSG 2003
Characters: Roslin (/Adar, /Billy, sort of)
Disclaimer: Moore's, not mine.
Spoilers: Set around 2x13, though not really plot-spoilery for it.
Thanks: to
fox1013 for cheerleading services and talking about Canadian films a lot.**
It's a concept that comes up every now and again, when you're part of a governing body that's barely two generations removed from the near-destruction of the human race and that's not exactly universally liked to boot. What would you do, if you knew the worlds were coming to their end? If the government fell, if the planet exploded, if, ha ha, the Cylons returned? The media asks the most ridiculous questions, sometimes. So Laura Roslin has considered the idea, maybe more than the average citizen.
**
Adar asked her, once. In the not-quite-real period when one term was winding down and another campaign was coming up, no one wanted to propose new legislation for fear the administration might change, but nobody could really relax either. She and Richard had stolen a weekend together, if only just beyond the city limits, needing to get away and to get outside in almost equal measures.
"You're morbid," she said mildly, kissing his bare chest before curling closer against his side.
"Not really," he replied, his hand twining in her hair absently. His palm cupped the curve of her skull familiarly, and she tipped her head back against the steady pressure. "It comes up at the end of every term, it seems. So?"
"So?"
"So what would you do?" he repeated. "If you knew disaster was going to strike tomorrow, how would you spend your last day alive?" Laura could tell by the tone of his voice that he wasn't going to let her get away with not answering.
Easing out of his embrace, she straddled his hips, lowering her body over his until the tips of her hair brushed across his collarbone. She smiled fiercely. "I'm already doing it," she whispered, and kissed him roughly.
She wasn't a politician by nature, but in her years with Adar she had learned the fine art of diversion.
**
It wasn't the truth, of course. Theirs hadn't been that sort of relationship, tender and romantic, flowers and chocolate. Part of it had to do with the need to keep it secret, of course, but a larger part had simply to do with their natures. She had loved him, yes, distractedly, comfortably; she had mourned him, when she eventually found the time. But if she had had only one day left to live, she could certainly have thought of better ways to spend it than in bed with him. She just hadn't seen the sense in telling him that.
No, though she didn't say it, even then Laura knew what she would do if she were waiting for the worlds to end. She hadn't planned out the exact details – that, she felt, would really make her morbid – but each time someone brought it up, she pieced together another segment.
She'd get up early, to watch the sunrise, she thought, and to give herself enough time to make her way out to the shore. A walk, a swim, an excellent lunch, and a chance to enjoy the light on the water one last time – it would be a simple morning. The afternoon, perhaps, she would spend cooking, glorying in the science of the kitchen, before an evening spent with good friends, good music, and good wine. And if she went to sleep at the end of the day with someone else's skin against hers, well, it could be a lovely way to go out, but she wouldn't worry over it.
When she slipped back into bed with Richard later that night, she felt no pangs of guilt over hiding her thoughts.
**
Now Laura knows that when the apocalypse truly comes, no one has time to live their last days. Her perfectly constructed fantasy day had instead been spent in negotiations and medical appointments and arguments, none of which had turned out entirely well. She doesn't regret that day, though, because if nothing else, she can remember the strength that flooded her with life.
Now Laura thinks that her last day will be all about other people instead of herself.
Now Laura has the time to carry out her last plans, because now her apocalypse creeps instead of rushes, and now she can see the slow inexorable certainty of the things she will leave undone.
**
"Billy," she calls, and again, "Billy!" when he doesn't immediately appear at the end of her couch-cum-bed. Finally he slips through the curtain, a tray of food in his hands. It's a very small tray, but it still seems like far more than Laura can conceptualize. She isn't nauseated, she isn't hungry, she is just folding slowly in on herself and collapsing the hollow places within her.
"Oh, Billy," she starts, holding a hand up in remonstration, but he sets the tray down and crosses his arms and glares at her sternly – well, as sternly as Billy gets, which isn't very, but he is trying. He is hilarious, and she feels the corners of her lips twitch with an unexpected giggle.
"Madam President," he says, very serious, "whatever you called me in here to do, um, I'm – I'm not doing it until you eat." His determination is adorable and touching, and Laura doesn't have the strength to argue with him anyways.
"All right," she says, and has the pleasure of watching him grin at the ease of her agreement. She picks up her fork and he turns away, because there are always things for him to do, and to spare her his gaze as she slowly progresses through the food. She knows that the selection on the plate must be the best that the fleet has available, but the flavours don't even seem to register. Still, perhaps she should be thankful: food on board Colonial One has never been anything beyond adequate, and if the cancer has dulled her palate, at least in this she hasn't been denied any real pleasure.
When the plate is clean, and only then, Billy returns to sit beside her. Not for the first time, she regrets having to pass him on to Baltar as if he were no more than another office fixture. It's too bad, she thinks, that she can't just take him with her. He is as much a warrior as any of the Galactica pilots, and surely there is a place in Elysium for presidential aides.
It seems as if there is always more for them to do in preparation for the transfer of power, and Laura can do less and less of it each day. Every piece of paper on her desk has a meaning and she doesn't really trust Baltar with any of them, so Billy is getting a crash course in the finer points of being the president. It's not like he doesn’t know everything she does anyways. Still, she regrets putting him in a position where he will eventually have to be ruthless. Her letter to Baltar is deliberately provocative, and she hopes Billy will pick up where Baltar lets things slide.
For once the pain waits until their agenda is cleared, thank all the gods. Billy is there with two tablets and some water almost as soon as the first spasm strikes, and she clings to his hand until it leaves her limp and exhausted.
She sags back against her pillows and Billy rises to leave, but she calls him back. She hates to ask it – he is an aide, not a nursemaid, certainly not a babysitter – but tonight she needs him. "Don't leave yet," she says. "Please," she says, hoping he'll understand.
He sits back down slowly and as she drifts off to nothingness, she feels his hand smoothing her hair off her face, his palm curving around her skull.
**
The next morning, she can't get out of bed, and Billy's name dies weak and dried-up in the back of her throat. Time doesn't seem to pass, or seems to pass too quickly, as she stares at the curtain, waiting. She imagines she sees it move so many times that when Billy actually enters, she doesn't even register it.
And then he is at her side, and he is holding her hand, and he is asking is she all right, can she hear him, he's going to go get someone, phone Doc Cottle, and his warmth fades from her fingertips. She can hear his voice dimly, the words blurring into one another as her cabin tips sideways.
And then the curtain drops and his voice is cut off and it occurs to her that that, that was her last day, that was her last perfect twenty-four hours, and she didn't get everything done and she didn't get anything done and she should be more worried about that.
His hand slips back into hers and she opens her eyes. "It's gonna be all right, Madam President," he promises, his young face painstakingly earnest and worried. She smiles and, with great effort, squeezes his fingers.
Perhaps some plans come to fruition after all, she thinks, and she waits.