Shrine of an indifferent god
For whatever_lj, who wanted to see the dystopic alternate universe from Laura's POV.
Is anyone keeping count of offerings? I believe it's bsg_aussiegirl at 6, sln1 at 7, and this drabble bringing me level with Aussie?
Bill reminded Laura of her Poppa -- the same boxer's build, the same broken nose, the same dripping blood when he'd come home from a fight he'd lost.
She refused to dwell on how she'd come to the life she led. She focused on small miracles: her boyfriend Tom sentenced to life before they'd been dumb enough to marry, Gaius kicking her out, Adama picking her up like a stray kitten.
All Bill wanted was to love her. He never let her do anything for him; he gave her food, shelter, fed her addictions.
It was enchanting.
It was endearing.
It drove her crazy.
She took to petty theft. She boosted old clothes and tattered books from the street vendors in Cooper Square and brought her treasures to Bill. He'd smile and praise her, put the book on a shelf and read her a chapter from one of his favorites.
The winter she developed a cough that wouldn't go away Bill took to drink. The doctor he'd brought (who once had a license but lost it for performing illegal abortions) hadn't had anything to sooth her aches, but his cigarettes and booze went a long way to soothing Bill's.
It wasn't the booze that Laura minded. Bill was a man; men drank. It was the sloppiness, the lack of coordination, the loss of dignity. Whatever depths he sunk to, he'd always been in command of himself. Now he wandered aimlessly, fought with old friends, snarled like a junkyard dog.
If she were stronger, she'd leave. But it was winter and snowy, and in Bill's bed there was warmth and love.
In the spring, she thought. By the spring she'd be gone. The one thing he'd never ask for, never accept, was the only thing she could do to save him.
Is anyone keeping count of offerings? I believe it's bsg_aussiegirl at 6, sln1 at 7, and this drabble bringing me level with Aussie?
Bill reminded Laura of her Poppa -- the same boxer's build, the same broken nose, the same dripping blood when he'd come home from a fight he'd lost.
She refused to dwell on how she'd come to the life she led. She focused on small miracles: her boyfriend Tom sentenced to life before they'd been dumb enough to marry, Gaius kicking her out, Adama picking her up like a stray kitten.
All Bill wanted was to love her. He never let her do anything for him; he gave her food, shelter, fed her addictions.
It was enchanting.
It was endearing.
It drove her crazy.
She took to petty theft. She boosted old clothes and tattered books from the street vendors in Cooper Square and brought her treasures to Bill. He'd smile and praise her, put the book on a shelf and read her a chapter from one of his favorites.
The winter she developed a cough that wouldn't go away Bill took to drink. The doctor he'd brought (who once had a license but lost it for performing illegal abortions) hadn't had anything to sooth her aches, but his cigarettes and booze went a long way to soothing Bill's.
It wasn't the booze that Laura minded. Bill was a man; men drank. It was the sloppiness, the lack of coordination, the loss of dignity. Whatever depths he sunk to, he'd always been in command of himself. Now he wandered aimlessly, fought with old friends, snarled like a junkyard dog.
If she were stronger, she'd leave. But it was winter and snowy, and in Bill's bed there was warmth and love.
In the spring, she thought. By the spring she'd be gone. The one thing he'd never ask for, never accept, was the only thing she could do to save him.