Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Rating: Hard R for torture
Pairing: Not really; Laura/Tory in a way
Spoilers: Crossroads Part II
Disclaimer: Moore’s the man with the master plan.
Summary: As the walls are closing in…
“I can make it stop,” the president — Laura — whispers into Tory’s ear. Gods, that voice. It’s so confident, so kind. It’s telling the truth.
Laura can make it stop, and Tory feels tears wet her cheeks all over again. Laura can do it, but Tory won’t let her.
“I want to make it stop, Tory,” she says in that same soft, caring voice. “I care about you. I can protect you, but you have to help me, Tory.”
Tory whimpers. “I always help you,” she says in a broken little voice. “Please, Laura, please make it stop.”
The feel of a cool hand on her neck. Tory shivers against it, thinking of her approximately ten thousand masturbation fantasies about feeling that hand against her bare skin, the infinite frakking tenderness of breath against her ear.
This is not a fantasy.
“You have to help me,” Laura repeats. “Who are the other three Cylons in the fleet, Tory?”
Tory shakes her head, no, no, no. Somewhere in her brain, she knows there’s something wrong with that question. But her muscles are tensing up because she knows that Laura doesn’t like no.
And she can’t say yes. That’s not a choice Tory gets to make for the others. Not even to save herself.
“I told you,” Tory whispers, shuddering as though they were lovers, as though the sweating and shivering came after a night of passion rather than this. “I told you the truth because I believe in you. Because I love you.”
There’s a dull, sickening crack and a fresh wave of pain to answer her declaration of love.
Tory screams, the feeling scraping against her vocal cords. Another broken toe. Is this two? Three?
They’re out of fingers already. Time has stopped having meaning. It could be half an hour since the guards strapped her down.
Or it could be a week.
It’s dark, it’s cold despite all the sweating, and everything hurts. Throbs, with the occasional shooting dart of deeper damage breaking the reverie.
And Laura’s hands on Tory’s skin.
“I know you told me,” Laura says, her voice the center of a world of fuzzy boundaries, pain, and Tory’s desire not to betray the others. “I trust you, Tory. Implicitly. But you’re a weapon, and it’s your choice if you’re going to be a knife at my throat or a weapon in my hand.”
“Why did you say three, Laura?” Tory asks, something clicking in her mind besides the red haze of pain and the sound of her own breathing. “There are four models besides me. Why did you say three?”
Teeth. Once they finish toes, Laura will have them move on to teeth, caressing Tory’s arm, her neck, her face, like a mother — like a lover — like a safe haven.
And Tory will lean into every touch until the bitter end.
“Did I say three?” Laura asks, her voice close. “I don’t think I said three. So there are three others?”
Oh, gods, she’s toying with her. Tory needs to throw up, but won’t. No. No. No.
“Please, Laura, don’t do this,” Tory pleads. “You are better than this.”
“This is your choice,” Laura repeats. She’s so damned cold. Tory’s always loved that, respected it, been drawn to it.
She thought it was strength.
“I can’t,” Tory says. “Not even for you.”
And that’s true, Tory knows. And whimpers anyway as Laura’s presence withdraws, as she pulls away and stands up, looking down at Tory with profound pity.
“I’ll give you some time,” Laura says. “To think about what you’re saying.”
Tory starts to sob again, because she doesn’t want Laura to go, even knowing that Laura will kill her or break her and not flinch. She wants her to stay, because Tory’s afraid of the dark.
And they will leave her in the dark, to listen to her own breathing, the sound of the engine hum, until Laura comes back to ask questions.
“Don’t go,” Tory says, convulsively reaching out. “Please don’t go.”
“Give me a name,” Laura says, implacable as steel.
“I can’t!” Tory screams. Doesn’t Laura know? Laura should know how much Tory wants to give it all to her, but she can’t. That’s not right, that’s not good, and she can’t do it.
“Then I can’t, either,” Laura says, turning her back and walking away.
It’s very dark. And cold.
And now Tory is alone with her thoughts and her toes and wishes she could stop crying.