fic: Blake's 7, Nothing at All
notes: you can blame this on redstarrobot. Though I'm still not quite sure it works. *sleepy yawn*
Fandom: Blake's 7
Pairing: Avon/Cally/Tarrant
Rating: er... 18ish, but not graphic. The porn is a bit boring right now.
Set: post-Children of Auron.
Nothing at All
by ALC Punk!
It's Tarrant who ropes him into it--or appears to. Tarrant with his smiles, and his suggestions, and his ability to get human emotions. At least, he understands them more than Avon. Avon prefers computers and cold logic. He'd always thought Cally did, too.
But Tarrant had a way of making him do things he wouldn't expect. And Cally... Cally did them, too.
Just a simple mission, the pilot suggested. Go in, get the data discs, come back out again. Something that wouldn't need the whole crew. And so it was just the three of them on a contact mission, something to distract from his need for revenge. Something to distract Cally, who'd been withdrawn and silent since Auron.
The meeting goes well, they're left with enough to buy several rounds in one of the bars, and they stop to do so. Tarrant claims they need the rest. It doesn't take them long to drink, and on empty stomachs, the alcohol goes to their heads faster than he'd anticipated. And then they're all a little drunk, leaning against each other. And she laughs.
She hasn't laughed since Blake, and Avon thinks that should be sad, but gets distracted by the column of her throat. There's something precise about it, and he blames the alcohol for the urge to lean in and kiss it gently.
Cally stops laughing. "Avon?"
For just a moment, he feels awkward. A shrug and he looks away.
"Ah, Cally," says Tarrant.
The moment seems completely lost and Avon wonders, again, if there's a reason to this skulking about the galaxy. It's certainly not making him rich--though the Liberator is full of treasure, and perhaps that's why he's skulking. The thrill of crises rather than the boredom of ease.
"Avon," she says again, leaning in and catching his chin.
She tastes like the wine and the need to brush her teeth. Somewhere, he hears Tarrant give a soft exclamation. And given where her hand slid after releasing his chin, he can guess where the other is. Then he's not thinking.
Avon's brain is over-loading with the need to touch her. Some part of his mind is scrambling to understand how this works, logically. But it's failing, and he's falling. But just before he falls, he hears something on the edge of perception.
Please...
Cally's mouth is too occupied to make a sound, so he pretends he never heard it.
-=-
Morning dawns brightly through the half-close shades of the tiny room they ended up in. Avon cracks his eyes open and tries to figure out why Tarrant is asleep against him, one arm draped over his waist. Then the evening comes back, the headache pounding behind his eyes telling him he drank far too much.
Cally was there, he's certain. It wasn't all Tarrant, although the bits and pieces he remembers tells him it was, once.
Sliding away from Tarrant and standing, he finds his clothing folded neatly. Putting them on is a comfort. Leaving Tarrant asleep is even better.
Instinct leads him from the place to a tiny cafe that overlooks the spaceport.
"I didn't order you coffee." Cally notes without looking up from the data reader she's perusing.
He grunts and drops into the seat across from her. If he's not mistaken, she's going over the information they received. Something they should all be doing, back on the Liberator. He doesn't make that suggestion. Absently, she hands him the other data disc and reader.
A waitress comes with another mug. "Would you like breakfast?"
"No."
She takes him at his word, disappearing elsewhere.
By the time the breakfast crowd have cleared, Tarrant wanders in. He steals Cally's coffee cup and takes a sip before sitting. "Sleep well, you two?"
"Yes." Cally's tone is anything but attentive.
"Good."
Tarrant orders breakfast, and the waitress doesn't bat an eyelash over the large amount of food. When it arrives, Avon grabs the toast and bacon while Cally swipes the fruit and a sausage.
Absorbed in his reading, Avon mmunches the meagre fair. The toast is cold and the bacon slightly burnt, but he's had worse--they've all had worse. And burnt bacon is slightly better than watching someone you care for die. At least, Avon figures that's the theory. Human emotions are easy to fake and easy to simulate, but the real truth behind them sometimes eludes him.
"We're not going to talk about it, are we." Tarrant says abruptly. He almost sounds surprised as he chases something around with a spoon.
"No," says Cally.
And that should be that, Avon thinks. It's logical. It happened, but there's nothing to talk about. At all.
Tarrant sighs. "It's a pity, though."
"Life is pitiable," intones Avon sardonically.
"Yes, well, more so for you than me." Tarrant grins, "I rather enjoyed it, but if you're both so... unimpressed by the skill involved, I suppose that's all there is to it."
"Skill?" asks Cally, finally looking up from her data reader. Her eyes are dark, "I'm not sure skill is what I would have called it."
"Are you saying I'm bad in bed, Cally?"
Avon swears he can see her lips twitch into a smirk before she replies. "I'm saying nothing at all."
"And what about you, Avon?"
"Oh," Avon feels his own sardonic grin appear on his lips as he meets Cally's eyes, "I'd rather say too little than too much about nothing at all."
"Nothing at all," shaking his head with a sigh, Tarrant drops his spoon and leans back in his chair. "Well, I suppose that's that, then."
"Liberator calling Tarrant and party, do you read?" Vila's voice cuts across anything else they might said.
Tarrant puts his wrist to his mouth and depresses the communications button, "We're nearly done here, Vila. We'll call for pick up, as needed."
"We're done now." Cally's voice is calm as she stands. "We should have Orac look these over and correlate the data."
Tossing a few coins on the table, Avon stands and follows her to the door.
After all, it would be rather illogical to teleport from inside the cafe. The attention it would attract could cause them trouble further down the line. And Avon may enjoy his skulking, but active pursuit would be a little off-putting.
-f-
Fandom: Blake's 7
Pairing: Avon/Cally/Tarrant
Rating: er... 18ish, but not graphic. The porn is a bit boring right now.
Set: post-Children of Auron.
Nothing at All
by ALC Punk!
It's Tarrant who ropes him into it--or appears to. Tarrant with his smiles, and his suggestions, and his ability to get human emotions. At least, he understands them more than Avon. Avon prefers computers and cold logic. He'd always thought Cally did, too.
But Tarrant had a way of making him do things he wouldn't expect. And Cally... Cally did them, too.
Just a simple mission, the pilot suggested. Go in, get the data discs, come back out again. Something that wouldn't need the whole crew. And so it was just the three of them on a contact mission, something to distract from his need for revenge. Something to distract Cally, who'd been withdrawn and silent since Auron.
The meeting goes well, they're left with enough to buy several rounds in one of the bars, and they stop to do so. Tarrant claims they need the rest. It doesn't take them long to drink, and on empty stomachs, the alcohol goes to their heads faster than he'd anticipated. And then they're all a little drunk, leaning against each other. And she laughs.
She hasn't laughed since Blake, and Avon thinks that should be sad, but gets distracted by the column of her throat. There's something precise about it, and he blames the alcohol for the urge to lean in and kiss it gently.
Cally stops laughing. "Avon?"
For just a moment, he feels awkward. A shrug and he looks away.
"Ah, Cally," says Tarrant.
The moment seems completely lost and Avon wonders, again, if there's a reason to this skulking about the galaxy. It's certainly not making him rich--though the Liberator is full of treasure, and perhaps that's why he's skulking. The thrill of crises rather than the boredom of ease.
"Avon," she says again, leaning in and catching his chin.
She tastes like the wine and the need to brush her teeth. Somewhere, he hears Tarrant give a soft exclamation. And given where her hand slid after releasing his chin, he can guess where the other is. Then he's not thinking.
Avon's brain is over-loading with the need to touch her. Some part of his mind is scrambling to understand how this works, logically. But it's failing, and he's falling. But just before he falls, he hears something on the edge of perception.
Please...
Cally's mouth is too occupied to make a sound, so he pretends he never heard it.
-=-
Morning dawns brightly through the half-close shades of the tiny room they ended up in. Avon cracks his eyes open and tries to figure out why Tarrant is asleep against him, one arm draped over his waist. Then the evening comes back, the headache pounding behind his eyes telling him he drank far too much.
Cally was there, he's certain. It wasn't all Tarrant, although the bits and pieces he remembers tells him it was, once.
Sliding away from Tarrant and standing, he finds his clothing folded neatly. Putting them on is a comfort. Leaving Tarrant asleep is even better.
Instinct leads him from the place to a tiny cafe that overlooks the spaceport.
"I didn't order you coffee." Cally notes without looking up from the data reader she's perusing.
He grunts and drops into the seat across from her. If he's not mistaken, she's going over the information they received. Something they should all be doing, back on the Liberator. He doesn't make that suggestion. Absently, she hands him the other data disc and reader.
A waitress comes with another mug. "Would you like breakfast?"
"No."
She takes him at his word, disappearing elsewhere.
By the time the breakfast crowd have cleared, Tarrant wanders in. He steals Cally's coffee cup and takes a sip before sitting. "Sleep well, you two?"
"Yes." Cally's tone is anything but attentive.
"Good."
Tarrant orders breakfast, and the waitress doesn't bat an eyelash over the large amount of food. When it arrives, Avon grabs the toast and bacon while Cally swipes the fruit and a sausage.
Absorbed in his reading, Avon mmunches the meagre fair. The toast is cold and the bacon slightly burnt, but he's had worse--they've all had worse. And burnt bacon is slightly better than watching someone you care for die. At least, Avon figures that's the theory. Human emotions are easy to fake and easy to simulate, but the real truth behind them sometimes eludes him.
"We're not going to talk about it, are we." Tarrant says abruptly. He almost sounds surprised as he chases something around with a spoon.
"No," says Cally.
And that should be that, Avon thinks. It's logical. It happened, but there's nothing to talk about. At all.
Tarrant sighs. "It's a pity, though."
"Life is pitiable," intones Avon sardonically.
"Yes, well, more so for you than me." Tarrant grins, "I rather enjoyed it, but if you're both so... unimpressed by the skill involved, I suppose that's all there is to it."
"Skill?" asks Cally, finally looking up from her data reader. Her eyes are dark, "I'm not sure skill is what I would have called it."
"Are you saying I'm bad in bed, Cally?"
Avon swears he can see her lips twitch into a smirk before she replies. "I'm saying nothing at all."
"And what about you, Avon?"
"Oh," Avon feels his own sardonic grin appear on his lips as he meets Cally's eyes, "I'd rather say too little than too much about nothing at all."
"Nothing at all," shaking his head with a sigh, Tarrant drops his spoon and leans back in his chair. "Well, I suppose that's that, then."
"Liberator calling Tarrant and party, do you read?" Vila's voice cuts across anything else they might said.
Tarrant puts his wrist to his mouth and depresses the communications button, "We're nearly done here, Vila. We'll call for pick up, as needed."
"We're done now." Cally's voice is calm as she stands. "We should have Orac look these over and correlate the data."
Tossing a few coins on the table, Avon stands and follows her to the door.
After all, it would be rather illogical to teleport from inside the cafe. The attention it would attract could cause them trouble further down the line. And Avon may enjoy his skulking, but active pursuit would be a little off-putting.
-f-