Disclaimer: Bill and Laura don't belong to me, they belong to one another.

This story is for Sandra, for encouraging me to keep writing with her extremely cute bribing gifs :)

'You came into my thoughts. You filled them. It felt good.'

Bill closes the book and stays quiet, letting the grave echo of his own voice vibrate in his chest, fade away in his ears. Laura doesn't move. There is no way to guess if she is listening or has dozed off. Her expression has softened but keeps a hint of discomfort, as if she could not quite get rid of an acrid taste on her tongue, a chill in her bones, a wave of nausea in her stomach. Maybe all three. There is only so much his company can accomplish.

Her palms rest flat against her belly, but their grip seems gentler, as if she had managed to drift into a state of relaxation by the sheer force of her will, which is how she does it all. She is losing so much weight. The sight of her thin frame is painful, and the dark wig only accentuates further the sharpness of her edges, the shadows plaguing her features. Bill swallows, pushing away the memory of a sunny day and a full body in a bright red, form-fitting dress; a mane of russet hair so thick that he could plunge both hands in it (and Gods, did it feel soft when he finally did); a laughter so rich that it could fix all the wrongs in the universe. A time and a world lost to them forever.

'You stopped reading.'

He turns to her. Her eyes remain closed, her chest rises and falls with a steady rhythm, but her lips are curved upwards in a smirk. Even before looking at him, she knows she has caught him off-guard. He chuckles.

'Thought you'd fallen asleep.'

She blinks her eyes open and sits up with a soft moan. She untangles the cord of the IV line from around her wrist and arranges the pillows. The mattress creaks under her weight as she shifts and leans back again. He watches her. Laura always accepts his help now, so he pushes himself harder to try and guess when she still prefers to do it on her own. It is never easy to tell, especially when his first impulse always is to rush to her. This time around, he holds back.

'Bill, I'd never leave you alone when you're getting into the part you haven't read.'

She shoots him a sidelong, knowing smile.

'Neither would I.' He rasps, smiling in turn.

I'll never leave you alone, period.

'I know. But I do know how it ends.' She pauses. And then, tentative: 'I think you can guess it, too.'

Bill's face falls; his gaze turns a dark shade of blue. When did this stop being about the plot of a novel, anyway? He shouldn't complain; he got it started in the first place. He should have seen it coming. Impatience tinges his voice despite himself; he does not want to upset her, but he can't lie. No, she doesn't know how it ends. Neither does he, and as far as he is concerned, he can live the rest of his life in oblivion.

'You know, that's the whole point. No matter what words are printed on those pages, when you're yet to read them, anything is possible.'

It is the old trick: nothing is real until it happens. It is a form of wisdom, but also one of denial. It is a way to stay open to all possibilities, but also a vain attempt to postpone the inevitable. They have never argued about this explicitly, yet it stopped being a secret between them a long time ago.

Laura smiles, reaches out.

'Let me?'

He has a moment of hesitation. He has come to fear her sometimes. Her practicality, her sharpness; her way to call by their true names things so horrid that they wouldn't even deserve one. Her forthright approach to everything, including her own condition; her uncertain future, which she believes is already set in stone.

Laura tilts her head, a brow arched. He gives her a wan smile, hands her the volume.

She retrieves her glasses from the chair and slides them up her nose. For a long moment, she seems content just stroking the cover. The pads of her fingers quietly trace the shape and texture of the golden letters engraved on the leather.

Searider Falcon.

Laura opens it and skims through the last chapters; the scent of ancient paper fills his nostrils with longing and memories. There was a time when this book did not bring him thoughts of her; there is nothing in that time that still interests him. She lets her forefinger fall on a random spot. Then she opens the book wider, smooths the page and clears her throat, somewhat theatrically. Bill is struck by a sudden vision: a schoolteacher ready to deliver a lesson. Since there is no one else around, he must be the student in need of enlightenment. This notion may have annoyed him some other time, but not today, he can't quite put his finger on why. Hands clasped together on his lap, he takes a deep breath and waits.

As she starts to speak, her soothing cadence fills the air of sickbay. The beeping from all the monitors, the occasional rush of steps outside the curtain that keeps their intimacy private, the muffled voices from other patients… Every other sound is pushed away into an indistinct background rumble. Only her accent, warm and resolute, prevails. Nothing can break into this cocoon, especially not the real world.

'… that's why sometimes it's better to leave words unspoken, because you are afraid your limited mind, your imperfect lips will do them a disservice. Because some words are meant to convey realities bigger than your very existence, because it should be a sin to try and name the inapprehensible. Such are also the words that weigh too much on the receiver; those that, when said aloud, create a burden where there used to be a blessing…'

He blinks up to three times before he decides it doesn't matter. It is okay if Laura sees his clouded gaze, if she notices the moisture leaking into the wrinkles around his eyes. It looks like she can play this game, too; this game he has been carrying out with her for so long. She is such a fine player that she can even improvise from a sickbay bed as doloxan -the cure, the poison- drops in her veins.

Using a book as both a shield and a messenger; a way to confess his feelings for her while keeping the air light and the lines between them intact... She has known it all along. Of course, he meant it every time, he wanted her to understand. Even when he really was reading, he had carefully chosen and bookmarked every passage before coming to see her.

He never expected to see himself on the receiving end.

'You're not reading.' Comes his low rumble. It is not a question.

Of course, he hadn't been reading, either. All those words he recited by memory a while ago, when he thought she was asleep… She knows where those came from.

Her point made, Laura closes the book and lays it down on her lap. Her eyes sparkle with tender mischief and something else that resembles water.

'There's just one way to find out.'

Bill knows the answer.

'Read it till the end.'

He smiles to himself, then at her. The end always comes in the end, but the way ahead will still be worth it. What Laura has just acknowledged, those lines she has not read, are all he needs to keep going.

Her hand -soothing, energizing- lands on top of his, squeezes it. Her touch is made of that very same substance that spoken words can't quite achieve.

'Together.'