[Commander’s Quarters, six months after Laura died]
There had been a time when the rustle of her clothes, the quiet murmur of her voice,
the gentle touch of her fingers on his skin had formed the comfortable background of his life and he hadn’t appreciated it fully. Now, his quarters were empty.
He had found ways to dim the ache and the solitude when he labored through his days leading the crew, shepherding the Fleet, promoting nuggets,
wondering if today could be the day that the Cylons would show up again. In the evenings her absence haunted him.
He was grateful that her sacrifice had bought them a cessation of Cylon hostilities and he was increasingly hopeful that maybe her destruction of the Resurrection Ship had ended the war - that,
maybe, the war had been over for six months already.
He poured himself a drink and turned to the weathered buckskin knapsack on the small counter near his couch. He knew what he would find inside: her diaries, her farewell gift to him.
He didn’t know what they would bring him, if he read them.
Would he have her back, if only for a moment? Would the loss be more poignant, more racking? Would her diaries disrupt his image of her or their bond?
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