[bsg] letters

[syntheid]

parthenon

01. Love	02. Hate	03. Joy	04. Grief	05. Curiosity
06. Apathy	07. Calm	08. Worry	09. Freedom	10. Trapped

Laura had kept a journal hidden in Bill's desk. Calling it a journal was generous, really. In truth it was a small collection of scrap paper from old books and documents only used once, enclosed in a piece of sturdy fabric and tied with twine. One of the perks to being president was getting first pick over old scraps, she had joked. But she'd called it her journal, so that was how Bill thought of it.

It'd been in Bill's desk because no one on board Galactica would have dared to violate the Admiral's private desk's drawers, and Bill himself had never touched it, as much out of personal regard to her as a preference for hearing Laura's voice to reading her notes. Besides, he was only half-fluent in the scrawl Laura called a shorthand that she used for her own records.

For weeks after she was gone, it stayed unopened, though he would pull it out periodically to hold it and remember her. The already-worn fabric had frayed along the edges from handling by the time they landed on Earth, but it followed him down to their new home, safely tucked in his pocket. There, finally relieved of the weight of command, Bill opened it.

He wasn't surprised to find that most entries were only a few short lines or a word, or sometimes only the date. Records of deaths or a few words on major events, mostly reminders to herself of whatever she found important to the presidency. Whenever she wrote, she kept it simple. Laura could be almost militant in avoiding waste of their precious resources. Almost none of the entries he could decipher contained anything to hint at the person behind the job, and Bill chuckled softly. In a way that was her after all.

On the last page was an entry that stood out, the last entry written before Laura had been permanently confined to the med bay. It was still short, just one word, but written in longhand, and the handwriting was cleaner than it had been for many of the later entries, like she had deliberately made an effort to make it legible.

E7/21359 - Love.

Tracing the word slowly with a fingertip, he whispered, "I love you, too."