Bill and Laura belong to Ron Moore; title belongs to Gary Jules.

You Know They're Going To Use The Things You Love Against You

Even now, there is so little time.

There are so many places he should be, so much he should be doing…they have a mission to complete, after all. If it's going to be his last mission, Galactica's last mission, he and the old girl are damn well going to do it right.

But he can't seem to force himself to walk away.

Looking at Laura now, perched on the edge of a bed in sickbay, at the bright glaze to her green eyes and the violent trembling of her body, Bill is afraid.

She doesn't have much time.

If he'd thought that these last few months had been painful, standing by as exhaustion had slowly claimed her, as pain had overcome her, as the cold had quietly, relentlessly, overtaken her body—

It turns out that watching Laura fade, month by month, is nothing compared with watching her die, moment by moment.

She's back in her clothes now, one of her old Presidential suits, the dark color and severe cut a seeming mockery of her pale, drawn features and her frail, emaciated frame, as though she's dressed to attend a funeral, only she is the one who is dying.

He'd thought he'd never see her in anything but a hospital gown ever again.

Somehow, this is worse.

Laura smiles at him, and it's like a blade thrust into his chest. "Good hunting," she rasps, her voice deeper, huskier then he's ever heard it before. He realizes he will never hear her real voice, clear and rich and nuanced, ever again, that that part of Laura is lost to him already.

Even this, now, this aching shadow of her former soothing tones…it will be gone, soon, too.

And all that will be left to him will be silence.

He nods, his throat momentarily too tight for him to speak.

In all this time, after all of these months, he still doesn't know how to tell her goodbye.

Be careful, he could say. But she is dying, whether or not she is careful, whether or not she survives this battle.

I love you, he could say. But the words are pale and empty; they don't convey her steady presence beside him in CIC, her warmth beside him at night, her determined eyes locked on his as she made her faltering way down the hanger deck to join him, just a few hours before.

I'm proud of you, he could say. But proud doesn't cover it, doesn't come close. He is humbled by her, that is closer to the truth. He is proud to have known her, to have loved her, to have stood beside her.

He has no words for this.

He wishes they had time for a more private goodbye, where his touch could fill in the places where language is failing him. Even now, the hustle of sickbay, the scurry of people coming and going, reminds him that this moment doesn't truly belong to them; he is needed in CIC, and Laura is needed here, and even now, time is passing, being ripped from his grasp.

He wonders if they will ever be alone again.

Laura presses one trembling hand to his cheek. "You should go," she whispers. "You have work to do."

He closes his eyes, trying to memorize her touch, the shape of her hand, the feel of her fingertips. Just as quickly, he opens them again: how will he remember her face? How long will it take for him to begin to forget, for the exact shade of her eyes to begin to fade, lose color in his mind?

If it is anything like Zak's death, he knows this: it will be like losing her all over again.

But at least with Zak, he had mementos, home movies, photo albums…

He has only one picture of Laura.

"Laura…" he begins.

She smiles, and it breaks his heart anew, because it is her real smile, even still, even now. "I know."

More than he has ever hoped for anything in his life…he hopes that she does.

"I'll see you soon," he says instead.

"Soon," she agrees, the light in her eyes burning fever-bright.

If she's still alive by then.

If either of them are still alive by then.

In this moment, he can't help but hope against their survival, can't help but wish for a future in which they do not have to lose each other. He doesn't mean it, not really, doesn't truly want this mission to fail, and yet…

"Bill," Laura says, and then a coughing spell overtakes her, smothers what's left of her voice.

Will he ever hear her say his name again?

The coughing goes on and on, leaves her gasping. His hands clench into fists as he watches her struggle against it, as he fights the rising tide of panic. If she can't—if this is it—

Finally, she is breathing again, but raggedly, all remaining color leached from her face. "I'm proud of you," she whispers.

Except that then this moment really will be their last. He cannot wish for that.

He will always, always, wish for more time.

With one last look at her face—the curve of her cheekbones, the arch of her eyebrows, the shape of her lips—he turns away, before he loses his nerve, before he allows himself to linger, before he cannot tear himself away.

Maybe, if he's lucky, he really will see her soon.

Maybe, if he's lucky, he'll get to say goodbye one more time.