Written for BSG-Epics Inspiration Day. Theme: Endings/beginnings; prompt - sharing a cell on New Caprica. Thank you to lanalucy for the beta.
Vigil
Laura sat huddled against the wall of their shared cell with her knees pressed against her chest and her arms folded around herself. Her beige turtleneck sweater was too big for her small frame. They'd all lost weight since they'd settled on New Caprica, even more so since the invasion of the Cylons. Food tended to stick in your throat when your neighbor across the way had been hauled in for questioning, sometimes never returning. If they did come back, they were often never quite the same, returning hollow eyed and faded, much like the frayed clothing they all wore. Detention had a way of draining the fight out of people.
Tom was on his feet moving slowly around the small cell while Laura sat, still as a statue. Cool and untouchable and remote. Tom's subdued walking wasn't a nervous pacing but he needed to move around. Mostly, he needed to avoid the temptation to look at Laura. He'd been in prison long enough to know what a captor fed most on. Fear. Want. Humiliation.
He'd like to be able to say that he'd won every battle that he'd fought in the twenty years he spent behind bars but the truth was, he hadn't.
He's real pretty, isn't he? Tom fought a resurfacing memory, steeled himself against it, shoved it down like a piece of rotten food that made the stomach clench and churn. The threat of recollection faded and he bit back a desperate sigh.
It had become easier once he'd gotten established, once some alliances had been formed, once he'd shown that he couldn't be broken.
There were no alliances to be formed here.
It had been easier when he'd been alone. Sharing a cell with Laura Roslin was harder because there was something here that he valued; it created a vulnerability that could easily be exploited. Tom recognized the agonizing irony of it. He'd put a hit out on her once. It seemed like such a long time ago when she'd been an icon and a symbol, when she wasn't Laura but merely an impersonal avatar of the establishment. But now he knew her. He wouldn't hurt her. A peculiar truce had cropped up between them since the Cylons had come. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. He allowed himself to glance briefly at her across the dingy room. She was still immobile, her expression unreadable and unchanged. Tom allowed himself to wish for the thing he spent more time denying than affirming - that it was more than mutual hatred of the Cylons that united them.
He wanted to ask her if she were all right. He'd squeeze her hand if he could. He'd offer a reassuring smile. He hated the Cylons even more for that, for taking away even that small, paltry ability to comfort a...friend. Once in a while the two of them would exchange a few quiet words but Laura, too, seemed to understand that it was better if they were silent, to give their oppressors as little ammunition as possible.
When they came, Tom wanted it to be for him, not for her.
If he'd coached her, she couldn't have handled herself any better. When Doral and the blonde came, when Doral touched her arm and led her out of the cell, Laura didn't make a sound. Her posture was sure, erect. She was moving marble, her steps unfaltering. She gave them nothing, not a shred of fear, not an ounce of defiance even, nothing that they could use against her. Tom watched through his peripheral vision, knowing that he couldn't risk what his gaze would show if he watched her head on. She avoided his eyes.
The waiting came next and Tom finally sat, motionless, pressing his temple against the concrete. He doubted that there was anything that they could have done to him in there that would have been worse - than this.