DISCLAIMER: Battlestar Galactica is the property of Glen A. Larson, Sci-Fi Channel, R & D TV, Sky and NBC Universal.
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Sweet Blasphemy
By Celievamp
Such sweet blasphemy. Her gaze is cool, considered. So different from his hot eyes telegraphing every emotion, every nasty little thought.
"You claim to be a prophet." Voices amongst the humans as well as amongst the Cylons claimed that of her and more.
Laura shrugged. "I claim nothing for myself. The Lords of Kobol granted me a vision of the future of my people. They safeguarded their future to me. There is nothing I will not do to ensure that future. I know that I am needed, now and in the future."
Caprica gestured around them. "Hence our current situation. Some hot-heads amongst your people might call this collaboration."
"I prefer to call it opening a dialogue. You want the killing to stop just as much as I do."
"Death to us is a mere inconvenience. A few hours and we will be resurrected in a new body."
"But you must remember it. The pain and the horror of it. Particularly a violent death."
"One adapts," Caprica said. She lets her fingers trail through Roslin's red hair. It has some body to it again since her recovery from her illness – a recovery in which the Cylons played no small part. "Your people have no such second chance."
"We live our life to the full whilst we can," Roslin said. "And if by giving up that life to strike a blow for the freedom of our people… As you said… one adapts." Caprica stared down at her. Without her glasses she has lost some of that reserve. She seems… softer. Her skin is pale from her incarceration. It is soft under her fingers. She is showing signs of age, there are wrinkles on her face – laughter lines the humans call them though Caprica cannot remember ever seeing Roslin laugh. She is still wearing the clothes she was wearing when she was taken, the white cotton shirt with small pearl buttons, the black slacks. Caprica lets her fingers slide over the front of the shirt, feeling the fullness of the breasts, the slight flabbiness of the abdomen. She has lost a little weight and has had little opportunity for exercise. Roslin does not resist, her expression does not change. The coolness in her eyes does not shade into fear or contempt. What happens happens. Her faith answers all.
As does Caprica's. "God sees all that we do. We succeed or fail by his will."
"Would you consider this success?" Roslin asked. "Your God seems to have lost his way. You lost at least fifteen humanform…"
"Skinjobs… that's what you call us, isn't it?" Caprica unloosened the plain black leather belt that held up Roslin's slacks and pulled down the zip. Resting one hand on Roslin's shoulder to keep her in place, she slipped the fingers of her other hand inside, touching soft hair, skin that quivered under her touch. "Skinjobs…" Roslin's underwear had obviously not survived the week's incarceration. She pressed long fingers against the folds of skin, feeling the warmth rise to meet her, a slightly musky scent. Roslin's jaw tightened minutely. "Less politically correct that humanform but you can get some real feeling into those words, some real hatred."
"What do you hope to achieve by this… line of questioning?" Roslin asked. Her voice quivered slightly as Caprica continued to caress her.
"A better understanding of what it is to be human, perhaps," Caprica said. "A little insight into the infamous Laura Roslin." She could feel the woman tremble at her touch, the pad of her thumb rubbing at her clit. Roslin's legs had parted a little more. Caprica leaned in, pressing Roslin into the chair as her hand moved from her shoulder to tangle in Roslin's hair pulling her head back so that Caprica could kiss her. Her lips were cool, dry and unresponsive at first but then Roslin started to kiss back and Caprica knew a small moment of triumph. Whatever else she was, Roslin was a human and like all humans could be manipulated. What it cost her was immaterial. God's will in this as in all things.
The End