Missing scene from Crossroads, Part 1. Set between the first day of Baltar's trial and the second; as in, Tigh has already given his testimony, but Laura has yet to be cross-examined by Lee. Before Bill's scene with Tigh, and definitely before his fight with Lee.

Title taken from "Morton's Fork" by Typhoon, another entry on the ever-growing list of Stuff I Don't Own, along with BSG, Bill and Laura, and well…most things, really.

When the Wolves Come

He doesn't tell her he's coming.

He just quietly orders a raptor, and, upon his arrival on Colonial One, informs Tory that he needs to speak with the president.

Laura doesn't look surprised to see him.

She's seated behind her desk, stacks of papers and folders spread out all around her, despite the late hour. She gestures for him to sit down before turning her attention back to Tory.

"You can turn in for the night," Laura says, a clear dismissal. "I won't be needing anything else."

He sees Laura and her aide exchange a look as Tory gathers up her things, and he knows that Tory heard the news before he did. He can't bring himself to resent it. If he's honest with himself, part of him wishes he still didn't know.

Looking at Laura now, her porcelain skin luminous against the dark blue of her jacket, the light dancing on the golden highlights in her red hair, it's still possible to imagine that this is all a terrible mistake. A call from Cottle, profuse apologies, a mix-up with another patient's test results. They will laugh, Bill will pour them both a drink, and they will go on with their lives, just as before.

He lets himself linger in the fantasy, just for a moment.

"Tea?" Laura offers, holding out a steaming cup. "Tory just made a pot."

He already knows how she's going to play this, and he hates it. He hates that barely a few weeks ago she was flirting with him and going to the gym, brimming, almost sparkling, with life, and now they're here to talk about her cancer.

Talk about the President's cancer, if he's reading her correctly. He wishes they were in his quarters, seated together on his couch, maybe, where the distance between them wouldn't seem quite so vast. But he doesn't try to reach out and touch her. He knows that Laura needs this space right now.

He realizes that Laura's still holding out the cup.

"It's not chamalla," she says lightly, misunderstanding his hesitation. "I think one of us on drugs is enough, don't you?"

He hates this.

"Laura—" he begins.

She sets the cup down, her other hand sliding her glasses off her face in one smooth, weary gesture. "I'm sorry," she says abruptly. "That wasn't how I wanted to tell you. Blurting it out like that, in the middle of CIC. It wasn't…kind."

He hates this even more.

"I'm just relieved you told me," he teases, trying for a smile. "I'd hate to have to throw you in the brig a second time."

She smiles, but there's pity in it. "I'm sorry," she says again, and he knows she means more than just this morning.

How bad is it, how soon have we caught it, how much time do we have? These are the things that he wants to ask.

Instead, he reaches out, slowly, to brush her hand, the one still clutching the tea cup. She doesn't pull away.

"Tell me," he says.

Her eyes slide away from his to rest on a point across the room. "I had my suspicions," is all she'll say. "Cottle ran some tests. The cancer's back."

He would have thought it would hurt less, hearing it a second time.

He's wrong.

"Just do it!" she snaps. "It doesn't hurt to ask."

She stalks off, shaking her head in irritation as she goes.

Something's wrong.

Bill Adama has seen Laura Roslin angry, frustrated, impatient, a thousand times before; this isn't that.

This is something else.

He goes after her, finding her pacing Damage Control, her grip on her own control treacherously shaky.

She says it before he can even ask her what's wrong.

"It's back."

Once or twice, Bill has wondered what those first moments out an airlock would be like: the force of the vacuum, pressing against your chest; the rush of air, loud in your ears; the sudden, complete lack of oxygen.

Now he knows.

Instinctively, he reaches for her, his hands seeking hers. "What are you talking about?"

As though he doesn't already know.

"I just came from Cottle," she says, the words spilling out of her, slicing into him with every syllable. "He ran the tests twice. It's true. My cancer's back."

That morning, there in the CIC, she'd been raw and edgy, the diagnosis still a fresh wound.

Now, hours later, she's bandaged it over with layers of practiced calm and willful suppression.

He's not sure which hurts him more.

"But we've caught it early," he says deliberately, hoping to the Gods that saying it out loud will make it true.

Her green eyes meet his again. "It's not as bad as last time, no," she says carefully.

He hears what she's really saying: it's not so good, either. Why wasn't she being checked more often, monitored more carefully? He should have made a fuss, should have mandated appointments with Cottle, should have insisted on reviewing her test results himself. He let this happen to her, let it catch them off guard, and he'll never forgive himself for that.

He swallows on a suddenly dry throat. "What about treatment?" he asks.

She slides her glasses back on. "I've already started chamalla."

"Real treatment," he says, fixing her with his sternest Admiral Adama glare. "What does Cottle say?"

She sighs. "He wants to start doloxan right away."

"And?" Bill prompts.

"And I told him I'd think about it," Laura says shortly.

Cold fear prickles the back of his neck. She can't be serious. "There's nothing to think about," he says gruffly. "You need your treatment."

She's already shaking her head. "I'm not stepping down, Bill. Not now. Not when we're so close to finding Earth."

"Of course not," Bill says, startled. Had she considered that? "We'll work around it. You're the President, for frak's sake. Cottle can schedule treatments after hours, early in the morning, whatever you need."

And he will, too, or Bill will have his ass. He makes a mental note to speak to Cottle as soon as possible, to ensure he has the proper attitude regarding Laura's treatment.

"You don't know what it would mean," she says, her voice soft. "Fatigue, nausea, muscle degeneration…"

"We'll manage it," Bill says firmly.

He's never seen Laura look this tired. The fine lines around her eyes seem deeper tonight, her sea-green eyes unusually pale. "You don't know what it would mean," she repeats. "I watched my mother go through two years of doloxan before she died. I always promised myself, if it came to me…"

Bill doesn't hear anything after the chill of before she died.

"You'll stay with me," he says, making up his mind even as the words are coming out of his mouth. If Laura doesn't want the doloxan now, she's not going to want it when treatments interfere with Quorum meetings, when she's queasy through press conferences, when the inevitable next crisis hits and she can barely lift her head. He knows her. She'll decide to skip one treatment, then the next, and before he even knows what's happening, she'll have quit.

And Laura can't quit.

Two delicate russet eyebrows lift. "I beg your pardon?"

If he keeps her close to him, he can watch over her. That's all he can think to do. Every treatment, every blood test, every medication…if she lets him, he can carry her through this, whether she wants him to or not. Whether she fights him every step of the way or not. Because that doesn't matter. All that matters is that Laura gets better.

Because Laura has to get better.

"You'll stay with me," he repeats. "We can't have you shuttling back and forth between Galactica and Colonial One every day; it's a waste of your energy. In my quarters, you'll be close to sickbay, you can work, you can take meetings, you can rest…it's the only solution that makes sense."

It's true, but it's not why he's offering, and it's not why he hopes she'll accept. He hopes she hears what he isn't saying: You won't be alone. I'll take care of you. We'll get through this together.

Laura's face is unreadable. "I don't think the fleet needs an Admiral who's busy babysitting the President," she sidesteps.

"Do you think the fleet would prefer an Admiral who's busy chasing after the President to nag her about her doctor's appointments?" he retorts.

Her lips quirk. "I suppose not." She pauses, and he knows she's about to say something he won't like. "Bill, the chances—"

He doesn't let her say it. "Don't matter," he interrupts, tightening his grip on her hand. "You and I have beaten worse odds. We'll beat this, too."

Her face softens. "Bill…"

"Come on," he teases gently. "You're not going to leave me with Zarek, are you?"

"Baltar, then Zarek," Laura mutters, weariness bleeding into her words. "Can I pick 'em, or what?"

"You know I don't like politics," Bill says mildly. "But the next time you pick a Vice President, can I sit in on the meeting?"

"I don't remember choosing, with either of them," she says ruefully. "And I'm not sure there's going to be a next time."

"Don't talk that way," he says, because he can't bear to hear her talk that way. "Now, how soon can you start the doloxan?"

She presses her lips together, and he knows he's pushing too hard. But he can't back down. Not on this.

"Are you going to tell me," she asks evenly, "that if it were you, you wouldn't need to think it over?"

"No," Bill admits quietly. "I'm not. And I'm not going to try to tell you that it's going to be easy. But Laura…we can't do this without you. Leading the fleet, finding Earth…I need you."

Even now, the words are hard for him to say. He hopes she can hear the words behind them, too, the words he's almost certain he'll never be able to say out loud.

She rolls her eyes. "You don't even think there's an Earth to find."

"That's why I can't find Earth without you," he says dryly.

She smiles crookedly.

He waits.

He remembers what he told the fleet, as she lay in sickbay, on what they all thought would be her deathbed. She's a fighter. It was true then, and it's true now. Laura Roslin does not give up. Not ever.

He just needs her to remember that.

"I'm not starting treatment until after the trial," Laura says at last. "The last thing I need right now is to start throwing up under cross-examination."

Bill would not have thought it possible that he could resent this trial more bitterly.

He would have been wrong.

"I could have Tory start packing my things, though…" Laura says, her eyes taking on that distant look that means she's plotting something. "And if I move up the Quorum meeting…"

Bill lets out a breath he hadn't been aware he'd been holding. Until he was saying the words out loud, he hadn't realized…but it doesn't matter, he tells himself. Nothing matters except that Laura will get her treatment, and if she gets her treatment, everything will be okay.

He doesn't have to think about what will happen if she doesn't.

He doesn't have to think about what it would be like to carry on without her.

"Bill?"

He realizes that Laura's watching him.

"Thank you," she says softly.

He knows that she's talking about more than living arrangements.

"Remember that when my alarm goes off at 0600," he advises, getting to his feet. He can't stay and savor his victory; he still has Saul to check on, another disaster to attend to.

"You remember it when I leave torn-up note cards all over your floor," she retorts.

He smiles, even though the memory of that day, when they'd thought they'd put her cancer behind them forever, makes him ache: her bare feet on his rug, the pencil snapped in two, the giggle that would have been unimaginable from her, just a few short months before.

He pauses at the doorway. "Good luck on your testimony tomorrow."

"With Romo Lampkin?" Laura asks, every syllable dripping with disdain. "I think I'll need it."

"If they misbehave, we'll kick them off the ship," Bill says grimly. At this point, after what Lampkin and Lee did to Saul, it's just barely a joke.

Laura snorts. "If only."

"It'll be over soon," he offers. "Then we can focus on getting you better."

She smiles, faintly, and Bill knows that she doesn't believe she'll be getting better this time, not really.

It doesn't matter, Bill tells himself.

He can believe it enough for both of them.