Small steps
for ar_drabbles challenge #18, "Things I can't do on Colonial One." Takes place during Crossroads II.
The diloxan hit her fast and hard. She'd thought she'd have more time; her mother hadn't reacted until the fourth treatment. Then again, her mother's treatment had been tailored to her illness; Laura had to make do with whatever Cottle had in stock.
She swiped ineffectually at the puddle of vomit. The office of the president still included a residence, but no household staff. She had to take her turn cleaning with the rest of them, and every person was expected to clean up their own mess.
She crawled over to the sink, washed out her mouth, dipped her wrists in the cool water. It would only get worse now, she knew. Sooner rather than later she wouldn't be able to stay on Colonial One.
Bill had offered space in one of his beds. She'd refused because she hated to go to a man needy. Once this trial was over, once he had convicted and sentenced Baltar, she could go to him triumphant and work out a deal. She knew what he could give her if she let him, but had no clue what she could offer him.
She'd already thrown herself at him. Numerous times. She was the president, but rejection hurt her as much as it did the next woman. Just the idea of another rejection had her retching. Whatever she offered, it wouldn't be her body.
If Bill did something monumentally wrong she could offer him forgiveness as he had on Kobol. But though he often thought he was wrong about everything, he rarely was.
She'd think of something. When she was strong and in charge, feet firmly planted on the decking of Galactica, being given all the respect due her office, she could strategize.
For now she'd be happy for the strength to mop the floor.