Title: The Feast of Thieves
Author: AsianScaper, aka frogfrizz
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Pairings/Characters: Tory/Roslin
Warnings/Rating: R
Summary: Forgetting has never been so easy.
A/N: Special thanks go to pocketwitch for the beta, the prompt (Tory/Roslin, professionalism), and cheerleading. To my prOn appreciation team: missfoxie and ana_khouri, more love and power. You all inspired this piece and it would not have been possible without you.

It troubles Tory that the person who sleeps next door knows the depth, the wickedness of her mistakes. It is a gash that will not heal as her wounds depend entirely on Roslin's success. It is a rawness that allows someone like the Colonies' President to pull Tory apart with a gaze, a smile, a touch –something she can do nothing about. Many horrible things are better left unsaid.

Tory rolls on her side, the creaking leather seats coaxing her half-awake.

But it is a noise inside the presidential quarters which finally pulls Tory into consciousness. President Roslin is puttering about, she thinks, deciding the fates of them all.

Tory is comforted by this and yet she is also afraid. Tory gets up, grabs a blanket from the seat she has designated as her sleeping place and abandons the discomfort of slumber.

She draws Laura's curtains aside and the President is standing by her bed, a leg up as she leans forward and laces a pair of knee-high boots.

Tory's breath catches as seeming long seconds accompany the sinewy line of Tory's gaze: up Laura's legs to the soft indentations of her knees, the neat hem of her skirt in a color that blazes against the white cropping of skin. Her top drops to a V at her solar plexus. Tory takes the time to breathe, unaware that her dizziness isn't settling.

She clears her throat while the heat rises to her cheeks.

"What is it, Tory?"

"Where do you think you're going?" Tory asks, in the way that brings Laura's head up to look at her appraisingly. "You have a meeting with the ships' captains tomorrow at eight o'clock. It's three in the morning, Madam President."

"The Feast of Thieves," Laura replies simply.

"That's today?"

"You'd better get dressed," Laura says. "That blanket won't do."

Tory looks down at herself and at the dark gray fabric, which hides more than just her amusement.

"Of course not," Tory says quickly. "I've never missed the Feast in my life." Tory salvages the situation by turning around and walking out.

She doesn't see Laura Roslin smile or the way she watches the awkward sway beneath Tory's sheets.

The Feast of Thieves is an event that will never make it to the official Colonial calendar. Unlike feasts condoned by the Gemenese, it is seared into the habits of the Caprican people, tucked away into pockets of locale and is held on the first day of the ninth month in the calendar.

Laura heard rumors of a bar in Galactica's hangar and as she steps in, a Caprican amongst Capricans, Joe's has been transformed into a primeval cave. Red light seeps at the edges of the ceiling as a bloody sunset takes place behind the rock. There is music, an earth-beat that solders her feet to the ground.

Ambrosia pours from a fountain and grapes that have been smuggled from hydraulic farms are draped over towering pillars. The illusion of plenty goads her and her companion presses into her back, pushing her forward.

"Get in before someone notices," Tory whispers.

There are no masks because the Capricans (un)know their own. There are naked men with their half-hard genitalia and women gyrating in thin vessels of silk. Hard nipples rub against skin…those dressed would slip into the spaces and touch and lick and taste.

The half-light illuminates the inundation of lust: people's half-open lips and pauses of delight, the noises that echo Bacchus and put Aphrodite at ease.

But someone does see. She is in her sweats and a jacket; she leans forward, presses her cheek to Laura's and whispers huskily, "I didn't expect you to be here."

"You're smarter than that," Laura tells the blonde pilot. "All Capricans know their own."

"Mm-hmm, do they now?" the pilot rakes, indicating the woman beside her. "And you brought a friend."

"I doubt any self-respecting Caprican above eighteen would skip a necessary part of the Caprican calendar."

Laura could feel Tory bristle.

"No. I don't suppose she would." Starbuck pulls an anonymous woman to her and as Laura watches, puts her tongue into the woman's mouth. The lady smiles appreciatively as Starbuck kisses down the valley between her breasts and lets her go, like prey Starbuck isn't willing to finish off.

Nobody knows the woman's name. Nobody ever would. Memory here is stolen by the hundred Thieves of Arkady.

Kara says, "Have a taste. Everyone's randy as it is."

"I'll have a drink, watch as the custom allows, and then leave."

"Always the politician, are you? You're aware that it doesn't matter who you are in this place. There are no names here."

Kara steps forward, a threatening motion and Laura reaches behind, catches Tory's wrists. Tory, without prompt, slips a hand under Laura's top and latches her tongue between Laura's lips.

There is comfort in knowing that someone appreciates Laura's intentions, knows the extent of her rationale. Laura's mind unexpectedly careens as Tory molds her hands against Laura's thighs, pushes her upwards and crushes their bodies together.

Starbuck raises a brow and watches for a moment, before flailing sticky fingers in the direction of the nearest body.

A throaty, unkempt voice whispers into Tory's ears, "Thank you."

"She wasn't going to leave anytime soon unless –gods forbid –we stuck to tradition."

"Mmm. Quite right."

Tory –sweet Tory –relishes the progress of Laura's desire.

"There are no names here," Laura murmurs as she leans forward to capture her lips.

Amidst subterranean traditions that erase everything: title, positions, and even their names –they collide with the Feast that breaks them, forgets them, and feeds them the glorious fountains of ambrosia or violet globes of sweetness.

It isn't without effort that they cover the space between the hangar and the President's ship, clasped together like twins joined at the hip and bruising the walls of the Colonial One.

"Gods," Tory breathes.

Her clothes are strewn over the floor; maps to a secret place which are marked by the milestones of Laura's skirt, top, boots…all pointing to the bed where treasures lie.

There is pleasure in brokenness; Tory moans beneath Laura's languid form, riding her fingers, panting through secret codes that Laura eases into her clit or whispers into her hidden lips as they sweat with uncontrollable rivers of desire.

In the silence of her quarters, Laura with the builder's fingers puts Tory back together again. And again, and again, until Tory loses her voice and eventually finds another groveling inside her head.

With her mouth, Laura sews their worlds into tattery, fragile swatches. She rattles against Tory's throat. Lathers solitary wounds. Covers rawness with the familiarity of touch and reminds Tory –always, always –that the most terrible things are better left unsaid.

Or forgotten.

Or stolen by the hundred Thieves and taken to the Isles of Arkady.

There are no mornings in space but nevertheless, the smell of coffee permeates the office and the clock reads seven-thirty.

"What's this?"

"It's a gift from Lieutenant Thrace."

Roslin looks up from beneath her glasses as she opens the package. "A box of grapes."

"Yes."

"And a bottle of ambrosia. I don't suppose you know what prompted this, do you?"

Tory falters for a moment then frowns. Her back straightens beneath her suit and her expression is one of complete professionalism.

"Of course not, Madame. I have no idea why she would send such a thing."

Roslin smiles. Tory walks away.

The Thieves, the Thieves. They have marauded once more.

~Fin~