Dance

***

Adama's hand is warm and a little rough in her own, and the lights around the dancefloor are spinning and spinning, and for the first time in a very, very long time, Laura feels almost happy.

It is a moment out of time. She knows this. In a minute or two, the song will end and life will start back up again. She will be dying of cancer and the nominal president of less than fifty-thousand people and the man currently turning her around the dance floor will turn back into the pumpkin she knows he is.

But now, the wool of his uniform is crisp under her hand and he smells all masculine and good and there's a drink waiting for her back at her table.

Smiling softly, Laura leans just a bit into Commander Adama and closes her eyes. Right now she can pretend.

And she's learned that right now is all that really counts.

-fin-

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