Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Spoilers: LDYB 2
Disclaimer: Moore’s the man with the master plan. More Fourth of July Femslash Porn Battle, Roslin vs. Roslin, “blood”
Summary: Saving a life. Saving the world.
It’s so trite. That’s the genuinely painful thing, realizing that all the things that make you unique are completely obliterated by facing off against the same steely gaze, the same trembling vulnerability, the same wry pragmatism.
She even has the same way of smiling as you do, the frak-off-and-die one that has been effective against admirals and schoolchildren alike. It’s just. so. trite.
They send her to you the night before you’re to be executed and “boxed” for blasphemy, cruelty to Cylon and humanity, and various treasonous war crimes and abominations, and you’re stretched out on the cot, staring at the ceiling, wondering if you can bribe the guard for a cigarette or a novel or anything that will allay the crushing indifference of despair.
“Laura,” someone says, using your first name, sweet as a prayer. It gets your attention. The last person to use it was Bill Adama, and he wasn’t good at it.
You open your eyes and see yourself, arms folded, demeanor calm, hair in control. The old you, the you that you enjoyed being, with nice shoes and hair products that worked; you hadn’t realized how much you
“Oh, you’re a fun new torture,” you say, rolling onto your side and taking her all in. You certainly had ‘it’ when you were president, especially the legs. “I’m not recanting, I’m not repenting, so frak. off.”
“Profanity? Is that really necessary?” the other you inquires mildly, leaning down to touch your face. “God still loves you, Laura, as his firstborn child.”
“God still loves me. The unrepentant traitor,” you say, deadpan, stone-faced and tired. “Go peddle it somewhere else, sister; I’m bored, I’m done, and I don’t want to hear about God anymore.”
“You wouldn’t,” says Laura, and really, if you come off like this, you almost hate yourself. “It’s all about Laura, isn’t it? Poor, deluded Laura and her faith in false idols and her passionate hope that she isn’t what she is and that her gods will save her, and her indolent despair that has her bored and passive the night of her death…”
You look up. “A Six could have delivered that effectively,” you say mildly. “We — at least I — have a sense of humor.”
“Then appreciate the offer being made, Laura,” the other one says. “Laura Roslin has to die tomorrow. You don’t.”
And that does make you laugh, even as the other you takes you by the hand and helps you sit up before straddling you wantonly, rocking against you like a cheap whore.
“What are you DOING?” you hiss at her as she pulls the hair away from your neck.
“We don’t want you boxed, Laura,” she says, grinding against you. “You saved the child. You’re protecting the child. The mother wants you saved, and we agree. Something is speaking to you and that cannot be silenced now.”
“The mother…Sharon Valerii,” you answer, still so confused. This could all be conveyed without the theatrical make-out session. “Why?”
“Whoever saves one life saves the whole universe,” she murmurs, stroking your face, your neck, your shoulder. Which feels nice, admittedly; it’s been a long while since someone’s touched you with affection. “You’ve saved so many. You didn’t have to. You could have given way to despair the way you almost have tonight.”
She’s breathing hard and ragged and you could almost believe she wants you, except that she is you. She has to know all your flaws, and who could want you after knowing those?
“Don’t touch me,” you say. “This isn’t necessary.”
“We would have sent one of the others to…comfort…you,” she whispers, trailing her fingers over you while you try not to shove. “But the point is that the watchers shouldn’t be able to tell the difference.”
“This is a sin,” you snarl through gritted teeth. “Also, it is tacky, tacky, tacky, and so not us.”
The other you — the other Laura — laughs. “Think of the sacrifice I’m about to make for you, Laura,” she says reprovingly, soothing out a snarl in your hair. “And pretend that you enjoy tacky for one night to save your life.”
She tilts your chin up and kisses you, and you sink into it, let her take off her clothes and smile at you with more mercy than you’ve ever felt.
“Are you sure you need me to pull off this plan?” you ask plaintively as she undoes the zipper on your skirt and tugs it away. “I was always very good, but you’re perfect…”
The Laura who isn’t you laughs again, skimming her hands over your thighs and parting your knees. “Mmm,” she says, eyes flickering up at you. “Anyone can be perfect if they have only one job to do.”
She places an open-mouth kiss on the inside of your thigh, just above your knee. It sends a jolt of electricity right through you and you shudder.
“And yours is what, exactly?” you ask, trying to keep your hands from tangling in her hair. Trying to maintain a little grace. “To give me one very good…if awkward…night before I die?”
Her mouth grazes that spot on your upper thigh that always makes you twitch. She knows, too, because she chuckles and the vibration makes you shriek and swat and clench the thin foam pad that serves as a mattress.
But it’s not going to be enough — the rhythm of it is so right, so comforting that you’re falling into it, closing your eyes and licking your lips as her breath catches against the damp spot she’s been working on. Her thumbs on your hips and this is wrong, it’s so wrong, it couldn’t be more wrong.
And your spine arches forward, knowing that anyone watching will think it another perversion of God’s adversary, his firstborn daughter and his only foe. To enjoy the flicker of obeisance from a deluded copy with not a drop of human blood in her veins.
Which it is and is not, as so many things are.
“Please,” you hear yourself say, and there is something warm running down your cheek. A tear. “Please, please, please…”
She’s devouring you and the thrum of it ignites pleasure after pleasure. It’s all so strange and painful; it’s wonderful and terrible.
“Please,” you say again, tightening and then letting go, letting it all go, sobbing it out as though you were a frightened child. “I can’t, I can’t, I won’t, I don’t want to, I can’t…”
She brings you to it again and again, ignoring your pleas for what, you don’t know, and your whole body flushes, bends, as you come and come and come.
Time stops having meaning, and when the first light of dawn crosses your face, you’re tangled with her — with yourself — and you can barely tell the difference anymore.
“Traitor,” a Leoben says. “Get up.”
You would have gone with him, but she does, looking at him and snorting.
“I have a name,” says Laura Roslin, and it makes you rather queasy, the way she is you. “I’m going to be executed as Laura Roslin, am I not?”
“Yes, Laura, you are,” he says. “But you are a traitor, and an enemy to God, and so I name you.”
He spits in her face, and you turn away. It’s too much, and yet her words cling to your mind like her smell and her sweat cling to your body.
Whoever saves one life saves the whole universe…
This is your task, then: to live — to fight, to suffer, to win, to survive — until you die.
You’re not sure you’re equal to it, but you must try. It’s in your blood.