WIP Wednesday

[dickinsons]

It's been a few weeks since I've done this. Instead of the usual word count update I'm gonna share snippets from some of my current WIPs. How's that sound?

As you might guess from the second WIP, I've already finished watching S4. I promise I'll post a review soon, but I haven't sat down to do it yet.

B7, Blake/Avon, Avon's violent fantasies about Blake have consequences

“Knock, knock.”

“I’m not home.”

Vila rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on, Jenna. There’s nothing wrong with having a laugh!”

A smile tugging at her lips, Jenna stared at him from the flight station. “No one’s laughing, Vila.”

At the weapons station, Avon found himself amused at the conversation, and he turned to look approvingly at Jenna. He was feeling particularly relaxed

“Cally!” Vila said as his eyes flickered to the couch, where Cally seemed rather distracted. “You’ll indulge me, won’t you, Cally? Knock knock!”

But Cally either hadn’t heard him or had chosen to ignore him. She didn’t even blink. Sitting beside her, Blake was focused on his chess game against Orac, his finger idly caressing his lower lip as he considered his next move.

Being ignored once didn’t deter Vila—if only!

“Knock knock!” he repeated, leaning over Cally.

This time, she turned her head slowly and stared at him, her mouth a tight thin line.

Her voice sounded uncharacteristically harsh when she finally spoke. “Keep this up and I’ll soon be knocking your teeth out, Vila.”
Vila leaned back as if he had been slapped. Jenna and Avon exchanged a look, and even Blake broke his concentration to frown at Cally.

“Are you feeling alright, Cally?”

She turned to her right to look at Blake, but her posture remained rigid. From where he was standing, Avon could see the movement of her shoulders as she breathed deeply.

“Not quite.” She got up and rushed towards the corridor. “I’m sorry.”

As she watched her go, Jenna descended from the station. “Cally!” she called, and she crossed the deck as she eyed the others with concern.

“Make sure she’s okay, Jenna,” Blake said, raising his eyebrows. “And be careful. She could be posssessed.”

“I was just trying to lighten up the mood,” Vila muttered, watching Jenna leave after Cally. He flopped down on the couch and closed his eyes.

Avon abandoned his station, too, and stood in front of Orac, a hand on his hip. “Well now. I had noticed Cally was particularly silent this morning, but that outburst was unexpected. However,” he lifted a finger at Blake, who observed him from his seat, “we haven’t stopped by any planet or station, nor met any other ship, in the last three days. How could she have been possessed?”

Blake massaged his chin for a minute and stood up. “Orac,” he asked, “can you speculate on the possible causes of Cally’s earlier outburst, excluding telepathic contact from malicious entities?”

Orac hummed as he considered the question. “Interpersonal conflict among crewmembers is a frequent cause of emotional outbursts on the flight deck.”

“Exclude interpersonal conflict from the parameters,” Avon added.

Blake frowned. “Really, Avon? Are you sure we can dismiss that option?”

“No, I'm not,” Avon replied. “Modify your theory accordingly, Orac.”

The hum continued for a few seconds. “When exposed to a wave of intense emotions emanating from another individual, particularly sensitive Auron telepaths can get mentally contaminated and experience such feelings as if they were their own.”

Thoughtful, Blake tapped his mouth twice before his eyes flickered to Avon’s. “I haven’t noticed any particularly intense emotions here lately. Not more than the usual, anyhow. Have you?”

B7, PGP, Avon/Servalan/Tarrant

The bitter taste of Adrenalin and Soma on his tongue reminded him of Vila. Avon always assumed there was nothing to Vila’s liking for the drink beyond his obvious tendency to addiction, but as the green concoction burnt down his throat, he began to understand its appeal. After the initial disgust, the drink left a warm trail inside you, and by the time it reached your stomach it seemed to already be helping you relax.

Vila hadn’t been as stupid as he seemed. Of course, Avon had always known that, but it was of little use to think about now.

Avon lifted his gaze from the glass and looked at the only other person in the medical unit, besides the two guards at the door. Tarrant looked wrong—he was covered in tubes and wore a patient gown. Stripped of his usual bravado, he looked too young.

And after everything they’d been through, Avon was starting to feel too old. He had smiled, then, because he thought that was it. He thought he was going to die fighting for a lost cause, being a nuisance to the Federation until his very last breath. Dying there, surrounded by the corpses of his allies, joining Blake’s body on the floor, hadn’t seemed like a bad way to die, then.

But as his first shot killed one of the troopers and he aimed his weapon at the next, he knew something was off. Others fell, but he hadn’t shot them. Seconds passed. He was still untouched. Avon crouched and shot at more troopers, his thoughts racing as he let his body handle the action. His survival instinct had kicked in again.

Tarrant stirred on his bed. Avon got up from his seat, his dignity preserved as he was wearing his own clothes again—leather, of course—and leaned over Tarrant. Blue eyes opened slowly, blinking a few times until they adjusted to the light.

“Avon?” Tarrant muttered, his voice raspy.

“Who else could it be?” Avon said, the hint of a smile at his lips.

“Where… are we?”

Avon looked around the room, its white and green tiles, advanced medical equipment, empty beds, padlocked cabinets. When he looked back at Tarrant, Avon was grinning.

“Why, in the lion’s den, of course.”

Tarrant’s eyes opened wide, and his hands began to touch his face and arms, desperately pulling at his IV once his fingers found it. Avon swiftly grabbed his wrist. Tarrant couldn’t offer much resistance.

“Don’t be stupid, Tarrant,” Avon spat, suddenly angry. “You were critically wounded. You’re still a few days away from a full recovery.”

Defeated, Tarrant let his arms fall on his sides again, and Avon released him from his grip.

“The others?” Tarrant asked, his eyes searching for something in Avon’s face.

His face unmoved, Avon shook his head, and Tarrant closed his eyes. For a minute, they stayed in silence.

Avon had said he wanted to make sure he knew exactly how many prisoners she took. He checked Vila, Soolin and Dayna’s pulse. Nothing. Tarrant was a surprise—he had survived the Scorpio’s crash and the shooting. In some ways, he was more like Avon than he liked to admit.

A part of Avon had wanted to check Blake's pulse as well, that irrational part of him he loathed. He had shot him three times, had made sure he was dead, had seen his stomach bleed and his body fall to the ground like a sack of potatoes. He was finally dead, and Avon was finally free of him. But the taste of freedom, much like Adrenalin and Soma’s, was too bitter to be enjoyed. One could only hope that its effects were better once it settled in.

Tarrant's eyes had found the troopers at the door, and he was staring thoughtfully at their black backs. His eyes flickered to Avon.

“She rescued us, didn't she?”

Avon looked at him and took another long sip of his drink, swirling it around his mouth for a few seconds before swallowing.

The clack of her heels across the corridor spared Avon from having to answer the question. He locked eyes with Tarrant briefly before turning to the door and waiting.