disclaimer: not mine
rating: R, sex (het), language
characters: Tory Foster, Leoben Conoy
set: New Caprica, pre-Occupation
spoilers: none past season three, as far as I know.
notes: I actually wrote this before 'Road Less Traveled', but let it sit until I could decide what I thought of it.
pages out of print
by ALC Punk!
Tory knows she's supposed to hate him. And she does. She whispers her hatred against his skin every time they meet.
It wasn't supposed to happen the way it did.
Roslin sent her to mingle amongst the upper echelons of the settlers. Class wasn't so much an issue, anymore--everyone lived in tents, but the question was whether your tent was clean or dirty, the canvas mended and patched or ripped and torn. Money had little value, but influence did. The upper class were split in regards to the Cylons, though most kept their mouths shut as long as the goods and supplies came to them first.
Roslin hadn't intended her to become entangled with a Cylon, either. She'd just wanted Tory's ear to the ground, her skills of observation and talent for gleaning gossip to discover whom they could influence in their quest to swell the ranks of the resistance.
Having an ear in the inner circle, such as it was, would be extremely useful.
They'd considered Ellen Tigh, but Laura thought of her as a security risk for reasons she wouldn't explain (Tory can guess).
It had seemed an ideal assignment, save for one thing: Cavil. All of him, to be exact, were ruthless and inclined to press their attentions on the younger women. Some refused, some didn't. When he got to Tory, she brushed him off, but wondered if it would cause problems.
Getting thrown in a cell would put a crimp in her plans, and she half-turned to take back her words.
A Two (or Leoben Conoy, as the dossier in Roslin's desk named him), drifted between her and the Cavil, distracting the older Cylon with a word or two that sent him wandering towards Ellen Tigh, who smiled like a cat with a dish of cream to share.
Tory shuddered a little, thinking that reality might be a little too close to the truth.
"I could tell you things," Leoben murmured to her as his aimless movements brought him back to the bar, leaning in next to her.
A number of replies went through her mind before she replied, "How our souls dance in the stream?" It's as close to a taunt as she allowed herself. Pissing off the Cylons would get her banned from the private little club, and she'd barely begun to do her job. There were still palms to grease and drinks to buy.
Something flickered through his eyes and his hand cupped her elbow, "Ms. Foster, unless you plan on becoming an old lecher's next meal, you should come with me."
"But I thought--" She was never uncertain, and hated that instant where she was.
Cold logic told her he was bluffing, but a glance over her shoulder, finding a different Cavil strolling his way towards her, weighted the decision on Leoben's side. He's not unattractive. And perhaps he doesn't want sex (impossible, given the way his eyes were trailing down her neck and chest, men are all the same, even Cylons). She set down her drink, and said, her voice toneless, "This is so sudden."
Sex had become a commodity long before the Cylons invaded. Hands braced against Leoben's chest, Tory wondered if she'd ever truly enjoy the sensations again. He was beneath her--a position that had surprised her, expecting him to need to be in control. Though, even there, his hands on her hips moved her quicker than she'd like.
His climax hit him far more swiftly than she expected and she considered mocking him for his lack of staying power even as she wondered if he knew who he'd cried out for.
It wasn't the only time they had sex. With him watching out for her, Cavil leaves her alone, and she does her job for Roslin. She finds the people they need, she trades the secrets that keep the resistance underground.
Where is Captain Thrace? She never asks the question. Consequantly, even four months on, she hasn't told Sam Anders his wife is alive and in Leoben's hands (this was not hard to ascertain, given how her name was on his lips when he's climaxing).
"I can tell you things about the resistance." He said into the silence after, while she was thinking about pulling free and finishing herself off, or just cleaning up and getting back to her job.
The words chilled her fast, and she stopped worrying about her own climax. Nevertheless, she couldn't let him have the upper hand. "What resistance?"
Leoben laughed, "They're not as invisible as they believe." There was no menace in his voice, just a simple fact, and an arrogance in his face that she could read even in the dim light.
Taking his words in, Tory half-smiled as she leaned down. "There is no resistance."
His hands on her hips dragged her down harder against him, and she could feel that climax she hadn't gotten suddenly becoming possible. "Of course not."
It isn't prostitution if both of you pays.
Their encounters are infrequent, but enough that she never feels the need to turn elsewhere. She hates that he's learning her body, figuring out the way to bring her off better and faster. Just like she hates him. She fantasizes about taking the knife she always carries to his skin, peeling layers back from his ribs and digging out his heart.
It's not worth it. Yet.
He talks, sometimes--almost as though he's a priest confessing his sins to her.
Tory listens and pieces things together enough to realize he needs the physical release she provides as much as she does. Some part of him is terrified he will be unable to restrain what he feels are far too base urges when around Kara Thrace.
Helping Anders plan targets, she doesn't think about the Cylon with his fingers on her hips and Kara Thrace's name in his mouth.
It's a compartmentalization her old professors would applaud at.
Never let them see you sweat.
Leoben asks her about children--for an instant, she thinks Isis. Then his description catches her up.
What the hell game is he playing with Thrace? Almost, she's curious enough to ask. But cells are cold and dank, and Kara Thrace has Sam Anders to worry about her.
Tory has no one.
The little girl is easy to find and Tory drags information they need about the heavy raider timetables, and the fleet in orbit from him, even as he laughs and tells her there's no hope. Then she murmurs the name of the young woman she's prepared to sacrifice for the good of the many.
She doesn't ask what he's planning. Knowing would make her an active accomplice.
But he stops as he's leaving, and says that he isn't intending to harm the child. For some reason, she believes him. He doesn't make the same promise about Kara Thrace.
I'm not supposed to enjoy this as much as I do.
"Do I have a destiny?" The words are her own, and for once, too curious. She doesn't know why she's asking or what she wants to find out.
"The things you believe aren't always wrong," he murmurs.
I hate you, she thinks. But she's gotten tired of saying it aloud and the words seem old and full of stale emotion, anyway.
As though he hears her, he whispers, "Thank you."
When he's gone and she's back in her own bed, Tory wonders how she can continue to do this.
From another section of the tent, Isis wakes, whimpering. A moment later, Maya is there, her voice full of sleep and rueful pleading as she tries to quiet the small child. Laura calls the child their future, with something that might have once been fear in her eyes.
Tory wonders if she's been given an answer.