DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em.  Just borrowing them.
TITLE: Hands
AUTHOR: Rowan Darkstar
EMAIL:  rowan_d1@yahoo.com
RATING: Teen
SPOILERS: Through "The Hand of God"
ARCHIVE: Ask me.  This really isn't my fandom.:D
SUMMARY: "She remembers what it is like to be touched."--Laura 
Roslin's POV

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'm just moonlight in this fandom.  I don't really 
belong here.  Please forgive any fandom faux pas.


HANDS
by
Rowan Darkstar (rowan_d1@yahoo.com)
Copyright (c) 2005


She remembers what it is like to be touched.

She cannot recall the last time someone closed their arms around 
her--for any reason at all--not until a cocky young pilot grasped 
her close on impulse in the control room of a war neither of them 
could have imagined.

She wanted to be The President and accept the moment; to stand 
strong and be the receiver, the source.  But the memories flooded 
too fast and furious as soft hair brushed her cheeks and a warm 
body pulsed against hers, heart pounding against her chest that 
wasn't the fading beats of her own wavering lifeforce.  Too many 
cracks in the carefully constructed compartments between who she 
once was, and who she needed to be.  She turned and pulled the 
young woman back against her and held on tight.

She would never have thought to call this woman friend in her 
former life.

Both had chosen a job they loved, nominally aware of the far-off 
risk of something more.  Neither had expected the something more 
to touch their lives.

She remembers what it was like to be cradled close, to be 
treasured and loved as nothing more than simply...Laura.  She 
remembers clothes chosen to flatter and ribbons in her hair.  She 
remembers girlfriends who were almost sisters and herbal tea and 
cousins all around on the summer holiday.  All of it before the 
world nearly ended and she was promoted to a place she was no 
longer allowed such needs.

There was a *he* once upon a time.  Close to the perfect *he*.  
The imprint of his fingers ghost her skin as she slips in out of 
feverish, drug induced dreams.

She lies on her cot and listens to the incessant grinding of the 
ship's massive and over-taxed engines.  She tries to remember the 
feel of grass beneath her back, tries not to feel fragile, 
floating in the vastness of space, tries to remember the sun on 
her face and a whisper of wind (*or maybe it's a gentle hand*) 
against her cheek.

She tries not to feel alone.

She wanted to teach children.  She wanted every mind in The 
Colonies stretched to its full potential, open to the countless 
wonders of the Universe.

Late at night, she's not sure the young minds growing in the 
remnants of the human race should know this Universe so well.  
It's not the place she once thought it to be.  In her waking 
hours, she knows the triumph of the human spirit is all that 
matters.  That joy can be found in any life.  She knows that the 
determination of a few beautiful souls is digging up the magic 
and allowing it to spread again.  Somewhere.  But late at night, 
she finds this hard to recall.

She remembers what it is like to be touched.

And sometimes...she wishes she could forget.

****

rowan_d1@yahoo.com