The Hour Is Getting Late for geekbynight
Title: The Hour Is Getting Late
Author: rose_griffes
Characters: Tory Foster, Sam Anders
Pairing: Tory/Sam
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: non-explicit sex scene
Word Count: just over 500
Summary: Can't get no relief. Tory leaps into the void. (Set during the season three finale.)
Original Story: Contrasts @ bsg_pornbattle by geekbynight
His fingers traced the curve of her neck, down her spine. The room smelled of engine grease and combat boots, but she didn't notice. The sounds and smells disappeared when they were together.
The memory pulls at her, even as she tries to push it away. A moment from childhood--yet it doesn't feel like her other recollections. The drone of the teacher's voice fills her head, like bees buzzing around her.
"Space is essentially a vacuum. There are very few particles of any kind, so it functions as a giant insulator. Sound can't travel, the temperature doesn't change--because those depend on particle movement, and since there are so few particles in outer space, it's quiet. Really quiet." Her teacher's voice dropped with those words, Tory remembers. Pausing for dramatic effect, he finally continued. "No friction, no noise, no warmth, no cold. Just emptiness."
Emptiness. Something about it both calls and repels her--like she belongs out there, but can't bring herself to make the sacrifice. The feeling has been a part of her since longer than she can remember. The space around her has never fit.
When the music started, it felt the same to her--the pieces of that song, or whatever it is: an echo, a signal to slip away from everything around her that doesn't belong. She hears snatches of it in seemingly random places, but Tory hasn't spent a lifetime (this lifetime) studying patterns for nothing.
He didn't say he missed her; she didn't tell him she wanted him. Instead they nodded at each other and slipped away from the bar at the same time, steps synchronized, no words necessary. With him she was quiet; the silence was a relief.
Always patterns; with that wrongness encircling her all of her life, she sought them as something to rely on. First she tried math, then politics, and finally she blended the two. Their sharp edges slide against her grip; she holds on with a vicious grasp to what needs to be done for those to whom she gives her trust.
Her hands come up empty far too often, though. Laura Roslin radiates disappointment when she fails her, and Tory can't find a way to make the puzzle pieces fit. It's fate, she thinks, and then remembers that she doesn't believe in it.
The room was already metallic, lacking personality other than the items scattered in various bunks. Inside Sam's bunk, the white sheets looked gray; the wall next to them faded from her view as she clutched at his shoulders. Her hands slid across his body; she dug her nails into the skin across his shoulder blades when he moved his mouth to her her breast.
The reporters, the rest of the staff: everyone talks in patterns that swirl around her like a cloud of insects, blocking her view, limiting the space in which she moves. Work doesn't satisfy her the way it once did. Fencing with words, pushing and pulling everything into shape; it seemed so easy before. Now the words falling out of her mouth ring falsely as she speaks them.
The buzzing nebula turns into a howling wind in her mind as she tries to navigate through what was once effortless.
He pushed into her and the song echoed through her head. It was a relief, a desired oblivion.
Not cold. No noise. Only emptiness.
Author: rose_griffes
Characters: Tory Foster, Sam Anders
Pairing: Tory/Sam
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: non-explicit sex scene
Word Count: just over 500
Summary: Can't get no relief. Tory leaps into the void. (Set during the season three finale.)
Original Story: Contrasts @ bsg_pornbattle by geekbynight
His fingers traced the curve of her neck, down her spine. The room smelled of engine grease and combat boots, but she didn't notice. The sounds and smells disappeared when they were together.
The memory pulls at her, even as she tries to push it away. A moment from childhood--yet it doesn't feel like her other recollections. The drone of the teacher's voice fills her head, like bees buzzing around her.
"Space is essentially a vacuum. There are very few particles of any kind, so it functions as a giant insulator. Sound can't travel, the temperature doesn't change--because those depend on particle movement, and since there are so few particles in outer space, it's quiet. Really quiet." Her teacher's voice dropped with those words, Tory remembers. Pausing for dramatic effect, he finally continued. "No friction, no noise, no warmth, no cold. Just emptiness."
Emptiness. Something about it both calls and repels her--like she belongs out there, but can't bring herself to make the sacrifice. The feeling has been a part of her since longer than she can remember. The space around her has never fit.
When the music started, it felt the same to her--the pieces of that song, or whatever it is: an echo, a signal to slip away from everything around her that doesn't belong. She hears snatches of it in seemingly random places, but Tory hasn't spent a lifetime (this lifetime) studying patterns for nothing.
He didn't say he missed her; she didn't tell him she wanted him. Instead they nodded at each other and slipped away from the bar at the same time, steps synchronized, no words necessary. With him she was quiet; the silence was a relief.
Always patterns; with that wrongness encircling her all of her life, she sought them as something to rely on. First she tried math, then politics, and finally she blended the two. Their sharp edges slide against her grip; she holds on with a vicious grasp to what needs to be done for those to whom she gives her trust.
Her hands come up empty far too often, though. Laura Roslin radiates disappointment when she fails her, and Tory can't find a way to make the puzzle pieces fit. It's fate, she thinks, and then remembers that she doesn't believe in it.
The room was already metallic, lacking personality other than the items scattered in various bunks. Inside Sam's bunk, the white sheets looked gray; the wall next to them faded from her view as she clutched at his shoulders. Her hands slid across his body; she dug her nails into the skin across his shoulder blades when he moved his mouth to her her breast.
The reporters, the rest of the staff: everyone talks in patterns that swirl around her like a cloud of insects, blocking her view, limiting the space in which she moves. Work doesn't satisfy her the way it once did. Fencing with words, pushing and pulling everything into shape; it seemed so easy before. Now the words falling out of her mouth ring falsely as she speaks them.
The buzzing nebula turns into a howling wind in her mind as she tries to navigate through what was once effortless.
He pushed into her and the song echoed through her head. It was a relief, a desired oblivion.
Not cold. No noise. Only emptiness.