A fic!
Title: Target Practice
Summary: Just before the combat, Avon runs into an old enemy.
Fandom: Blake's 7/NCIS
Word Count: 825
Rating/Contents: G
Pairing: Gen, with background Avon/Servalan (just like always, amirite?)
Policies: Read my archiving, feedback, and warnings policies here.
Timeline: Missing scene for Death-Watch (B7); AU (NCIS)
A/N: For A Ficathon Walks Into a Bar. Hurrah, I don't have to default on my own challenge! This isn't the story I intended to write, because what I intended to write sort of collapsed, like a flan in a cupboard; but with the help of
gozer, I knocked this together instead. I'm fairly pleased with it.
It's audacious, criminal, what he's planning on doing, breaking into the private chambers of the Neutral Arbiter, just as combat is about to begin. It's also, Avon thinks, a little predictable of him; he knows Servalan will be expecting him- after all, if their situations were reversed, he'd be expecting her.
It's a little disappointing to realize that it's the steadiest relationship he's had in a very long time.
Anyone finding himself in Avon's situation would be in want of a little liquid courage- if not courage, precisely, then reinforcement- but letting Vila mix him up some kind of sickly-sweet, neon-colored, possibly brain-killing cocktail isn't precisely what Avon has in mind.
The bar he chooses is deserted- not surprising, given that the planet might as well be uninhabited today, the merrymakers gone off to hold their orgies somewhere else- excepting the bartender and a single patron. The light is low, the brightest source of illumination the viscast playing above the bar; and so Avon's almost to his stool before he realizes who the man is.
What a coincidence, Avon thinks. Go to see the wolf, and find her dog instead.
Avon has the same curious pang in his stomach as any time when his old life intersects with what passes for his new one. Last time he saw this man, he and Anna were- the point is that it was a long time ago, and Avon was on the wrong end of his gun, in the wrong part of the city, on the wrong day.
But Avon's already feeling contrary- he's already fixing for a fight- so he sits down, ignoring how and if his heart is beating out of his chest.
"Investigator Gibbs," Avon says, though he's aware that it sounds more than a little like a growl. He motions to the bartender for another of whatever Gibbs is having- it's brown liquid and ice, which is essentially the same on every planet he's ever been to.
Gibbs looks over at him, his cool blue eyes hardly registering any surprise at all. "It's Commissioner," he corrects. "But it's been a long time, Kerr."
Avon has to laugh- of course Gibbs hasn't forgotten, not a thing, not even how much he hates his given name.
"You seem awfully calm," he taunts, "for a Federation officer sitting next to an escaped criminal."
"You sat next to me," Gibbs reminds him, raising his glass to his lips. "Rules of the Convention. Couldn't do anything to you if I wanted."
Avon raises an eyebrow at him, picking up his own drink. "I assume you still want."
He shrugs. "Want's a strong word."
"Does need suit you better?"
Gibbs finally sets down his drink, looking over at Avon with narrowed eyes. "Did anybody ever tell you that you're tiring, Kerr?"
Avon's lips curl. "Oh, but we've barely even started."
"Are you trying to make me shoot you?" Gibbs asked, and it doesn't sound anything like a rhetorical question. "Cause I gotta tell you, killing a dirtbag like you has got to be such a minor infraction, I don't even think they'd delay the combat for it."
"I didn't come here intending on anything of the sort," Avon replies, opening his hands. "I just came down to visit a sick friend."
"If he's sicker than you, he must be a hell of a terror."
Avon laughs to himself. "Oh, trust me, Commissioner. She is."
"Get the hell out of my face before I decide I don't care about the Convention," Gibbs threatens.
"I'm just leaving," Avon tells him. I've had my fill of target practice, he doesn't add.
He leaves Gibbs with the check; Avon's day is looking up already.
Gibbs doesn't watch as Avon goes, leaving the scent of leather behind him; the cost of the drink is a small price to pay to get Kerr Avon out of his hair, preferably forever.
He really hates Teal and Vandor, both.
"That's a negative, Space Probie," DiNozzo is saying, as he comes in. "Veena Collins was definitely not in Last Shuttle."
"I hate this game," McGee complains.
A guy can't even drink sarsaparilla in peace around here, Gibbs thinks to himself, draining the rest of his glass and tossing money onto the bar. He adjusts his hat and stands up; McGee and DiNozzo are still arguing. "Hey," he says sharply. "We're here to protect the President, not play grabass."
"We were playing Six Degrees of-" DiNozzo starts, but Gibbs only has to raise his hand the slightest bit before he changes his tack. "We were playing grabass, Boss," he says. "Won't happen again, Boss."
"Damn right it won't," Gibbs replies. "Who's on guard, if the two of you are here looking at me?"
"Ziva and one each of the local guards," McGee tells him. "But we should go join the detail just in case?" he adds, sensing Gibbs's displeasure.
Gibbs nods. "Let's go."
This entry was automagically crossposted from http://sabinetzin.dreamwidth.org/217033.html.
comments over there.
Summary: Just before the combat, Avon runs into an old enemy.
Fandom: Blake's 7/NCIS
Word Count: 825
Rating/Contents: G
Pairing: Gen, with background Avon/Servalan (just like always, amirite?)
Policies: Read my archiving, feedback, and warnings policies here.
Timeline: Missing scene for Death-Watch (B7); AU (NCIS)
A/N: For A Ficathon Walks Into a Bar. Hurrah, I don't have to default on my own challenge! This isn't the story I intended to write, because what I intended to write sort of collapsed, like a flan in a cupboard; but with the help of
gozer, I knocked this together instead. I'm fairly pleased with it.
It's audacious, criminal, what he's planning on doing, breaking into the private chambers of the Neutral Arbiter, just as combat is about to begin. It's also, Avon thinks, a little predictable of him; he knows Servalan will be expecting him- after all, if their situations were reversed, he'd be expecting her.
It's a little disappointing to realize that it's the steadiest relationship he's had in a very long time.
Anyone finding himself in Avon's situation would be in want of a little liquid courage- if not courage, precisely, then reinforcement- but letting Vila mix him up some kind of sickly-sweet, neon-colored, possibly brain-killing cocktail isn't precisely what Avon has in mind.
The bar he chooses is deserted- not surprising, given that the planet might as well be uninhabited today, the merrymakers gone off to hold their orgies somewhere else- excepting the bartender and a single patron. The light is low, the brightest source of illumination the viscast playing above the bar; and so Avon's almost to his stool before he realizes who the man is.
What a coincidence, Avon thinks. Go to see the wolf, and find her dog instead.
Avon has the same curious pang in his stomach as any time when his old life intersects with what passes for his new one. Last time he saw this man, he and Anna were- the point is that it was a long time ago, and Avon was on the wrong end of his gun, in the wrong part of the city, on the wrong day.
But Avon's already feeling contrary- he's already fixing for a fight- so he sits down, ignoring how and if his heart is beating out of his chest.
"Investigator Gibbs," Avon says, though he's aware that it sounds more than a little like a growl. He motions to the bartender for another of whatever Gibbs is having- it's brown liquid and ice, which is essentially the same on every planet he's ever been to.
Gibbs looks over at him, his cool blue eyes hardly registering any surprise at all. "It's Commissioner," he corrects. "But it's been a long time, Kerr."
Avon has to laugh- of course Gibbs hasn't forgotten, not a thing, not even how much he hates his given name.
"You seem awfully calm," he taunts, "for a Federation officer sitting next to an escaped criminal."
"You sat next to me," Gibbs reminds him, raising his glass to his lips. "Rules of the Convention. Couldn't do anything to you if I wanted."
Avon raises an eyebrow at him, picking up his own drink. "I assume you still want."
He shrugs. "Want's a strong word."
"Does need suit you better?"
Gibbs finally sets down his drink, looking over at Avon with narrowed eyes. "Did anybody ever tell you that you're tiring, Kerr?"
Avon's lips curl. "Oh, but we've barely even started."
"Are you trying to make me shoot you?" Gibbs asked, and it doesn't sound anything like a rhetorical question. "Cause I gotta tell you, killing a dirtbag like you has got to be such a minor infraction, I don't even think they'd delay the combat for it."
"I didn't come here intending on anything of the sort," Avon replies, opening his hands. "I just came down to visit a sick friend."
"If he's sicker than you, he must be a hell of a terror."
Avon laughs to himself. "Oh, trust me, Commissioner. She is."
"Get the hell out of my face before I decide I don't care about the Convention," Gibbs threatens.
"I'm just leaving," Avon tells him. I've had my fill of target practice, he doesn't add.
He leaves Gibbs with the check; Avon's day is looking up already.
Gibbs doesn't watch as Avon goes, leaving the scent of leather behind him; the cost of the drink is a small price to pay to get Kerr Avon out of his hair, preferably forever.
He really hates Teal and Vandor, both.
"That's a negative, Space Probie," DiNozzo is saying, as he comes in. "Veena Collins was definitely not in Last Shuttle."
"I hate this game," McGee complains.
A guy can't even drink sarsaparilla in peace around here, Gibbs thinks to himself, draining the rest of his glass and tossing money onto the bar. He adjusts his hat and stands up; McGee and DiNozzo are still arguing. "Hey," he says sharply. "We're here to protect the President, not play grabass."
"We were playing Six Degrees of-" DiNozzo starts, but Gibbs only has to raise his hand the slightest bit before he changes his tack. "We were playing grabass, Boss," he says. "Won't happen again, Boss."
"Damn right it won't," Gibbs replies. "Who's on guard, if the two of you are here looking at me?"
"Ziva and one each of the local guards," McGee tells him. "But we should go join the detail just in case?" he adds, sensing Gibbs's displeasure.
Gibbs nods. "Let's go."
This entry was automagically crossposted from http://sabinetzin.dreamwidth.org/217033.html.
comments over there.