BSG/DW: Harmless as a Broken Ax (Tory/Martha)
For projectjulie, who requested a crossover from the Pax Galactica challenge at getyourtoaster. I chose a BSG/Doctor Who prompt, which specified Tory/Martha, wound.
Title: Harmless as a Broken Ax
Author: voleuse
Fandom: BSG/DW
Pairing: Tory/Martha
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: You've traveled this far on the back of every mistake.
Notes: Set after BSG 3.05
Tory had her own quarters in Colonial One, and even now, months after she's returned to it, she could feel the twitching specter of Cylons over her shoulder. She used to spend her off-hours in her quarters, reading borrowed books and shuffling through ship rosters. Now she wanted to set her bunk on fire, because whenever she closed her eyes, all she saw was blood and rage and Biers.
Twelve minutes later, she was on a shuttle to the Galactica, smiling at two Marines and a part-time cook with relief.
After treating herself to a cup of mediocre coffee in the mess--a luxury item throughout most of the fleet, but a staple for military kitchens--Tory wandered through the ship, taking the long way around to avoid the bulletin boards in the main corridor.
She ended up standing inside the hatch of the observation deck. It was empty except for a couple--specialists, if she read their uniforms correctly--entwined in the corner, and a woman in civilian clothing a foot away from the glass.
Somewhere in the corridors, a call went out on the intercom, static-smeared and low, but the specialists broke apart in a moment. Tory leaned against the back wall and watched them rearrange themselves, rebuttoning, refastening. They nodded at Tory as they exited, and one of them, to her amusement, blushed.
"I thought I'd be trapped here for the rest of the night," the woman said, her voice bouncing off the glass before she turned. Her smile was wide, and wholly inappropriate for the Galactica, Tory thought.
"It's the war," she said, as if any of it needed explanation. "You'd be surprised what goes on in here." The woman raised an eyebrow, and Tory took a few steps closer. She wasn't familiar, and that bothered Tory--civilians weren't usually so free to wander on this ship. "You're with the press?"
"Yeah, I'm--" The woman put a hand to her jacket pocket, then shook her head. "No. I'm a doctor, actually. Just visiting." She looked Tory over, eyes skimming over the late-night ponytail, the unbuttoned collar, the wrinkled slacks. "You?"
Tory played out the variety of answers she could give, each label hitting its own note as she skipped past it. "I couldn't sleep," she finally said, because that answer felt true.
The woman smiled, a quick quirk of her lips, and extended her hand. "My name's Martha, by the way."
"Tory." She took her hand, found herself surprised by the warmth against her palm. Too soon the clasp was over, and she turned to the glass, placed her hand against the cool of it.
"It's beautiful," Martha observed. A viper spun past the ship--a pilot, playing tricks.
Tory tapped her nails against the glass. "I used to think so."
"Used to?" Martha's reflection shifted, faced her. "What happened?"
An laugh escaped past her lips, and it tasted bitter. When she glanced back, Martha's expression had closed down to wariness.
Tory turned on her heel, and she settled into a chair, twisting her legs beneath her. She rested her elbow against the armrest, and tried to push suspicion aside.
She watched Martha, cataloged the way her face moved as she contemplated something. Her jaw firmed when she came to, Tory thought, a decision, and she bit her bottom lip before speaking.
"Are you going to tell me what goes on in here?" she asked. Then she grinned, and Tory watched her tongue dart against the corner of her mouth. "Besides snogging, I mean."
Tory laughed, and for once, she thought she meant it.
###
A/N: Title and summary adapted from Antilamentation by Dorianne Laux:
Regret nothing. Not the cruel novels you read
to the end just to find out who killed the cook.
Not the insipid movies that made you cry in the dark,
in spite of your intelligence, your sophistication.
Not the lover you left quivering in a hotel parking lot,
the one you beat to the punchline, the door, or the one
who left you in your red dress and shoes, the ones
that crimped your toes, don't regret those.
Not the nights you called god names and cursed
your mother, sunk like a dog in the livingroom couch,
chewing your nails and crushed by loneliness.
You were meant to inhale those smoky nights
over a bottle of flat beer, to sweep stuck onion rings
across the dirty restaurant floor, to wear the frayed
coat with its loose buttons, its pockets full of struck matches.
You've walked those streets a thousand times and still
you end up here. Regret none of it, not one
of the wasted days you wanted to know nothing,
when the lights from the carnival rides
were the only stars you believed in, loving them
for their uselessness, not wanting to be saved.
You've traveled this far on the back of every mistake,
ridden in dark-eyed and morose but calm as a house
after the TV set has been pitched out the upstairs
window. Harmless as a broken ax. Emptied
of expectation. Relax. Don't bother remembering
any of it. Let's stop here, under the lit sign
on the corner, and watch all the people walk by.
Linked on getyourtoaster.
Title: Harmless as a Broken Ax
Author: voleuse
Fandom: BSG/DW
Pairing: Tory/Martha
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: You've traveled this far on the back of every mistake.
Notes: Set after BSG 3.05
Tory had her own quarters in Colonial One, and even now, months after she's returned to it, she could feel the twitching specter of Cylons over her shoulder. She used to spend her off-hours in her quarters, reading borrowed books and shuffling through ship rosters. Now she wanted to set her bunk on fire, because whenever she closed her eyes, all she saw was blood and rage and Biers.
Twelve minutes later, she was on a shuttle to the Galactica, smiling at two Marines and a part-time cook with relief.
After treating herself to a cup of mediocre coffee in the mess--a luxury item throughout most of the fleet, but a staple for military kitchens--Tory wandered through the ship, taking the long way around to avoid the bulletin boards in the main corridor.
She ended up standing inside the hatch of the observation deck. It was empty except for a couple--specialists, if she read their uniforms correctly--entwined in the corner, and a woman in civilian clothing a foot away from the glass.
Somewhere in the corridors, a call went out on the intercom, static-smeared and low, but the specialists broke apart in a moment. Tory leaned against the back wall and watched them rearrange themselves, rebuttoning, refastening. They nodded at Tory as they exited, and one of them, to her amusement, blushed.
"I thought I'd be trapped here for the rest of the night," the woman said, her voice bouncing off the glass before she turned. Her smile was wide, and wholly inappropriate for the Galactica, Tory thought.
"It's the war," she said, as if any of it needed explanation. "You'd be surprised what goes on in here." The woman raised an eyebrow, and Tory took a few steps closer. She wasn't familiar, and that bothered Tory--civilians weren't usually so free to wander on this ship. "You're with the press?"
"Yeah, I'm--" The woman put a hand to her jacket pocket, then shook her head. "No. I'm a doctor, actually. Just visiting." She looked Tory over, eyes skimming over the late-night ponytail, the unbuttoned collar, the wrinkled slacks. "You?"
Tory played out the variety of answers she could give, each label hitting its own note as she skipped past it. "I couldn't sleep," she finally said, because that answer felt true.
The woman smiled, a quick quirk of her lips, and extended her hand. "My name's Martha, by the way."
"Tory." She took her hand, found herself surprised by the warmth against her palm. Too soon the clasp was over, and she turned to the glass, placed her hand against the cool of it.
"It's beautiful," Martha observed. A viper spun past the ship--a pilot, playing tricks.
Tory tapped her nails against the glass. "I used to think so."
"Used to?" Martha's reflection shifted, faced her. "What happened?"
An laugh escaped past her lips, and it tasted bitter. When she glanced back, Martha's expression had closed down to wariness.
Tory turned on her heel, and she settled into a chair, twisting her legs beneath her. She rested her elbow against the armrest, and tried to push suspicion aside.
She watched Martha, cataloged the way her face moved as she contemplated something. Her jaw firmed when she came to, Tory thought, a decision, and she bit her bottom lip before speaking.
"Are you going to tell me what goes on in here?" she asked. Then she grinned, and Tory watched her tongue dart against the corner of her mouth. "Besides snogging, I mean."
Tory laughed, and for once, she thought she meant it.
###
A/N: Title and summary adapted from Antilamentation by Dorianne Laux:
Regret nothing. Not the cruel novels you read
to the end just to find out who killed the cook.
Not the insipid movies that made you cry in the dark,
in spite of your intelligence, your sophistication.
Not the lover you left quivering in a hotel parking lot,
the one you beat to the punchline, the door, or the one
who left you in your red dress and shoes, the ones
that crimped your toes, don't regret those.
Not the nights you called god names and cursed
your mother, sunk like a dog in the livingroom couch,
chewing your nails and crushed by loneliness.
You were meant to inhale those smoky nights
over a bottle of flat beer, to sweep stuck onion rings
across the dirty restaurant floor, to wear the frayed
coat with its loose buttons, its pockets full of struck matches.
You've walked those streets a thousand times and still
you end up here. Regret none of it, not one
of the wasted days you wanted to know nothing,
when the lights from the carnival rides
were the only stars you believed in, loving them
for their uselessness, not wanting to be saved.
You've traveled this far on the back of every mistake,
ridden in dark-eyed and morose but calm as a house
after the TV set has been pitched out the upstairs
window. Harmless as a broken ax. Emptied
of expectation. Relax. Don't bother remembering
any of it. Let's stop here, under the lit sign
on the corner, and watch all the people walk by.
Linked on getyourtoaster.