FIC: The Healing Dark
Title: The Healing Dark
Fandom: BSG
Rating: PGish
Characters: Laura Roslin
Summary: "Most days, these few minutes of selfishness are the only moments she has to herself."
Notes: Thanks to nnaylime for the beta.


Some praise the Lord for Light,
The living spark;
I thank God for the Night
The healing dark.
-Robert William Service, "Weary"

At night she counts the things she misses most the way others might count sheep. Protein with every meal. Richard. The flower box outside her window. The strains of a perfect soprano filling the opera house with an impossibly clear note. Kneading dough and watching it rise, the sun setting over the mountains, the crinkle of silk, not worrying that breaking the heel of another shoe will leave her barefoot.

Most days, these few minutes of selfishness are the only moments she has to herself. It's not comforting, but it's necessary. At first she is angry, furious at what has been taken from her-- from her, as if she has been somehow singled out to suffer. She holds her rage close and it begins to feed on all the things the cancer can't reach. It gives her the strength to make the decisions she would have once found appalling, but when her mind is clearer, the thought of a government led by wrath leaves her nauseated. Slowly, she trains herself to set the anger aside before it destroys her.

As the self-pity leaves, it is replaced with a clarity of purpose stronger than any note heard in the old opera house. It is only when resources are accounted for and a rationing schedule designed that she begins to attend to her own needs. The heel of her shoe is fixed, an old recording of a mournful saxophone piece is found, she seeks out Doc Cottle.

The thought of her cancer no longer fills her with carefully controlled panic. They are all facing a slow execution, and in some ways she can see the cancer as a gift. Cancer is certain, it follows a predictable path and its outcome is known. The slow wasting her mother faced will not be her fate. She is in control.

Without realizing it, she begins to supplement her nightly lists with the things that bring her comfort. Billy. Elosha. Cancer. She has blankets, a pillow, and the respect of those that matter. In this, she is secure.

She puts greater stock in her dreams now, and even when she wakes up screaming, she won't call them nightmares. The dreams too, bring comfort. The days don't get any easier, and there is never enough time to do everything she must do, but she can accept this. The dreams ensure that it is not merely the waking hours that are productive ones, and so sleep is no longer accompanied by the nagging sense that there is so much left to do.

Her path is clear, and this brings her the greatest comfort of all. She cannot fail. Her destiny was written years ago, and even as she stares out from the bars of her cell she knows the truth of her life. All of this has happened before and all of this will happen again. When she sleeps, all she has to count are blessings.