Shadowscapes

Vila looked solemnly into Tarrant's eyes before pouring the drink. "You're drunk," he proclaimed, spoken with the certainty of someone in the same condition.

The curly-haired pilot blinked, struggled to focus on the older man. " Srrr'e you" he mumbled, his hand managing to remain steady as the thief re-filled his glass.

"But it's my natural state," Vila replied, "an' you're going to really regret this in the morning." He sounded gleeful at the thought.

Vila resumed his loose-limbed slouch in the chair as Tarrant downed the clear liquid. The thief glanced down. One empty decanter lay on the floor. The one in his hand was only a quarter full. He considered. Just enough so that he could reach that ideal state of mindless existence that usually eluded him. And still leave Tarrant a shot. If the pilot were still conscious after he emptied his glass.

Muzzily Vila rendered a silent thanks to the person who had provided the flasks, whoever that was. Vila was having trouble thinking that far back. Oh, right. Avon. Really nice of Avon to do that. He always knew Avon could be nice. He just expected that it would have taken a blaster held to Avon's head to make him that way. Besides, was it really nice if Avon had an ult...alt...hidden reason?

He looked back up to find Tarrant leering at him. Yes, it was a leer, no doubt of that. Quite a cute leer, those liquid blue eyes bringing a flush to his face. He was rather surprised to feel a warm knot forming in his belly. Cally was right. He did spend too much time thinking about THAT. But that wasn't what he'd come here for. Today he wanted oblivion, not passion. Besides, Tarrant? True, he wasn't bad to look on (and that mouth!), but really. The boy was drunk (nothing boyish about that figure). Even if he dared to indulge, there would be hell-to-pay the next morning. Besides, the leer was gone now, replaced by that melancholy, lost look that bespoke unpleasant memories.

Tarrant struggled to his feet, groping for a wall to support himself with. Vila remained in his slouch. Best not to help. Even this drunk, Tarrant struggled to hold onto some of his pride. Needing the help of the resident fool would only anger him. The pilot managed to find his way to the head, partially shutting the door behind him. Vila stared at the nearly-empty decanter once more.

Avon had come onto the flight deck to relieve him only this morning. Normally, Vila hated the night watch, but the evening had been unusually pleasant. Tarrant had taken them across the border, back into the Federation a few days ago, running past the pickets that Servalan had left waiting for them. He'd then doubled back toward Teal, leaving the Federation patrols believing Liberator was headed toward sector four. Only during the night had they re-entered Federation space, two full sectors from where any searching fleets expected them. Orac had informed him of that fact; a vain attempt to distract him, Vila thought. Vila had been explaining the rules of such illustrious (and fictional) games as gloopock, fizzbin, and rabblemuck to the glorified rat-maze. The constantly changing rules had insulted Orac's sense of order, eventually sending the computer into an electronic sulk. The pastime had been so amusing that Vila had stayed awake the whole watch.

He'd been banging on Orac's casing, trying to get the temperamental computer to answer him (really, it had only been a tap), when he had sensed someone else on the flight deck. He had whirled in a panic, to see Avon watching him. He had prepared for a verbal onslaught from the dark-eyed man, started to babble excuses. It had taken him several moments to notice the two flasks that Avon held up in invitation.

He'd eyed the bottles suspiciously, even as he sidled closer. Just out of arm's reach, he'd looked carefully at the other man. "Beware Avons bearing gifts," he'd growled. A quirk of those perfect lips was his only answer. More certain now that Avon was not going to launch into some scathing tongue-lashing, he'd gingerly taken the bottles from Avon. The computer genius had yielded them up without hesitation

Indeed, Avon hadn't said anything until Vila had taken the time to sample the first decanter; it had taken Vila several moments to get over the 150-proof jolt the clear beverage had provided. Then he had continued to stare in that half-bored, half-amused way until the thief's patience had worn out first.

"So who do I have to kill for these?"

"Consider them a reward for staying awake the entire shift. I thought a unique event deserved recognition."

"I knew it! Who's the spy? Zen? Orac? Or did you stay up all night just to watch me watching?" A thought. "Why two flasks?"

Avon shrugged, looked innocently at him.

"Don't give me that innocent look," Vila snarled, enjoying the false ferocity now that he knew Avon was 'safe'. "It looks as natural on you as feathers on a fish."

Vila's intention to remain aggressive evaporated with Avon's smile, one of those rare ones that radiated warmth. Avon kept him waiting once more as he moved into one of the seats in the pit. Vila took a seat beside him, intentionally pressing closer than Avon would normally like. Avon ignored the intrusion, settling back in a way that told Vila his back had been bothering him through the night.

"Actually, Cally has rather a lot to do with the idea. She thought you deserved some compensation after your disappointment on Teal." Avon's eyes had narrowed slightly as he gauged Vila's reactions. The thief shook his head, held up the second decanter.

" She also thought you might prefer to share your...consolation...with someone else."

There was a silence stretching into minutes, as Vila pondered. He took another sample of the beverage. Then his eyes widened and he stared at Avon in disbelief.

"You want me to play best mates with Tarrant? Why not just ask me to step out an airlock without a suit? The way he's been the last few days..."

"Exactly. The way he has been the last few days has been just short of intolerable. And you haven't been at your best either. Cally is concerned about both of you, and has been going to some length to belabor that concern to me." A shadow of a smile. "And can you picture me going to Tarrant, sharing a drink and commiserating with him?" Vila tried, and failed to imagine the scene. Avon continued. "Since our means of relieving the situation are limited, I decided to allow you your preferred form of solace. Perhaps the same would not be amiss for Tarrant."

"What about Dayna, or Cally?" Vila could feel the alcohol already affecting him, relaxing him without having started to dull his thinking process. Damn. Avon knew how to entice him with a challenge, especially with the bribe being provided. (Where did Avon get this stuff? Got to check to see if he has any more hidden.)

"Dayna...tried. Two days ago. She won't discuss it, but she did threaten to...impair certain body functions if Tarrant so much as looked at her ever again. Cally wasn't any more successful. Which leaves you, and me." A flash of teeth. "Unless you recommend we try Orac?"

Vila grinned at the thought. Wonder what Tarrant would re-arrange Orac into?

Vila tried to delay once more accepting the improbable mission. "Why are you so eager to help our resident Dental Poster Boy?"

Avon's expression made him regret asking. Avon's mood shifted, a chill coming over the dark features. "Because if Tarrant doesn't come out of himself enough to function properly, I might have to find a new pilot. And that would be inconvenient."

Vila searched, unsuccessfully, for the slightest hint of any emotion in that bald statement. " I'll try," he'd said in the end. "After a rest. And if he boots me out, I'll keep these", he added, holding up the two precious flasks. Avon had merely jerked his head downward, once, in acknowledgement.

So he'd found himself in Tarrant's quarters, a few hours later, after the pilot had come off the afternoon watch. Surprisingly, the younger man hadn't thrown him out immediately. He had attempted to brush off Vila by claiming to be trying to sleep. Vila had pointed out that that was an activity usually done lying down on a bed, with one's clothes at least partially removed. Tarrant had then tried to ignore the thief. He was ostensibly preoccupied going over some ancient flight-training vid he'd acquired from somewhere. Vila had not been put off, of course. He'd merely filled the silence with a steady flow of light chatter, even as he'd studied Tarrant.

He should have noticed earlier, he thought. Normally, he would have. The rumpled clothing, incomplete shave. The bags beneath the eyes. Tarrant had been letting himself go, and not bothering much with sleep it appeared.

Eventually Tarrant had yielded, taking a glass of Avon's elixir just to shut Vila up. He had downed the drink in a quick gulp. When he had been able to breathe again, Vila had offered him another, which the pilot had treated with proper respect. And so the two men had passed away the time in a silence that had gone from resentful to companionable.

Eventually it dawned on him that Tarrant had not reappeared. He considered the situation, then reluctantly rose to his feet. The bottle was placed lovingly on a desktop, and he walked with barely a stagger to the lavatory.

Tarrant stood staring into the mirror. One hand was braced against the wall, the other methodically rubbing at his forehead. Tarrant seemed utterly engrossed with the motion. Already, the skin was an angry red. Vila moved without thinking, one hand firmly but gently reaching up to stop the other man's actions. "It's all right, Tarrant," he spoke softly. "It's gone now."

Tarrant turned angrily, backed up a step. He looked as if he were considering striking the thief. " Damn you, it's not all right." To himself. "It'll never be all right."

Vila's face reddened. He was shocked at the anger that swept through him. "Maybe it won't be. But you can get on with it, or die. Maybe you should quit thinking about the dead and look to those around you who care."

Tarrant stared at Vila as if he'd never seen him before. Anger and confusion flickered across his face. Anger won. "What do you know about it? About Deeta, you fifth grade ignorant?"

Vila's outrage sputtered, collapsed. He leaned against a wall. "Not a thing, Tarrant. Only, I was there too, remember? With you and all those other millions that felt Deeta die."

"You had no right to be there! None of you." Tarrant's features were twisted in anguish. Vila gave a brittle, humorless laugh. "Maybe not. But we were. My idea, remember?" Vila wanted to flee, escape the guilt cascading through him. But he stayed.

"He wouldn't even see me before. And there was no after." Tarrant was talking to himself again.

"But there was that moment, just before... And it was for you. Not the rest of us. No matter how many were there, it was only for you." Vila's voice was gentle. He looked at the pilot, wondering if he had given the man too much to drink. No, he decided. This was what Cally and Avon had sent him here for, he supposed, but it was far more than he had bargained for. When this was done, Avon was going to owe him another bottle.

Tarrant was leering at him again. Vila shook his head. He'd seen many drunks, and many ways of reacting to the alcohol, but Tarrant seemed to have come up with some new twists. It took a force of willpower the others didn't believe existed not to take advantage of the situation.

Tarrant stared about, his limbs waving aimlessly. His legs threatened to go in opposite directions, as if each were under the control of a different brain. Vila stepped forward, took Tarrant underneath one arm. Tarrant draped himself over the smaller man.

"You stink," Vila muttered, nose wrinkling in distaste. It was an exaggeration; Tarrant's body odor was sharp, but not totally unpleasant. Frequent showers were one of Vila's few habits that the rest of the crew did not find revolting, decadent, or obscene. And he preferred people around him to share that habit (especially when they share the same stall). Tarrant blinked several times, stared at Vila.

"Yrrr'r'ght. Nee shwwr." So the slur was back. The pilot lurched for the shower cubicle, dragging Vila along. The thief sighed. What had he done to deserve such punishment? He half-pushed the younger man into the stall, turned to leave.

"Need help!" Tarrant's voice rang out, echoing in the acoustics of the cubicle. Vila hesitated, and the pilot called out again. Vila moved tentatively back.

Tarrant had managed to brace himself against the stall's wall, legs spread wide apart. He was glaring at his hands as if they were some wayward strangers. He looked up at Vila, spoke in a pouting voice. "Can't get clothes off. Won' come off." He pawed ineffectively at the fasteners of his jacket to prove it.

Vila groaned. This was bad. Very bad. Already that voice deep in his head was cackling, urging him to grasp the unexpected opportunity (and whatever else he could). The other voice, the one that had kept him alive this long, screamed of danger, warning him he'd spend the rest of his short life-expectancy running from the pilot when he sobered up. Vila actually swayed with indecision as he pondered his choices.

Then Tarrant reached out, managed to snag him by one arm. "Help me", he commanded in that imperious Alpha voice, pulling Vila into the cubicle. Vila's hands moved of their own accord, and within moments the jacket and under-tunic were tossed casually out of the stall.

Somehow, Tarrant had shifted about, and Vila found himself blocked from the stall door by Tarrant's body. Though the Liberator's showers were big enough to comfortably hold two, even three people, he felt a sense of claustrophobia. Tarrant's body radiated heat that sent a flush through Vila. Time to exit, or else...

"Can't get pants." Vila stared at the pilot's face, a flicker of suspicion running through him. The tall man's voice was sounding surprisingly sober, but the facial muscles were still slack from the effects of the alcohol. But a rising eagerness overcame the last of his resistance, and he dropped to one knee. In seconds the fastenings were undone, and the trousers were jerked to Tarrant's knees in quick motion. Vila paused a moment, enjoying the view. No, nothing boyish about Tarrant. Though his suspicions were unfounded, based on Tarrant's lack of readiness. But still...

Vila screamed.

Tarrant had turned on the water, and jets of ice-cold water struck at both men from multiple angles. Vila rose and turned, desperately seeking the controls. From Tarrant's yells, the man was disliking the experience as much as Vila.

Tarrant was also trying to reach the control panel, with the result that Vila found himself pressed against one wall, pinned by the bigger man's weight. Was it imagination, or was Tarrant rubbing himself against Vila as they both pawed at the controls.

Panic swept Vila. Flashbacks of unpleasant memories washed through him. Tarrant wouldn't...

Then Tarrant was on the floor of the stall, staring stupidly up. Somehow he had managed to hit the proper control before collapsing, and now a pleasantly warm spray washed over them. The pilot gaped at Vila with a bedraggled look of confusion, his pants still around his knees. Vila realized he himself was soaked. He managed a short curse. Naturally. Tarrant would fall in a way that blocked him from escaping (do you really want to?). He considered his next move.

"Boots." Tarrant's leg swung up alarmingly, and Vila barely dodged being struck in his most vital body part. He sighed. May as well finish what you started, he thought. The boots came off with little resistance, then the entrapping pants. The sight of Tarrant lying there quickened his breathing. The pilot's body was pale ivory, glistening under the steady water flow. Two small scars marred the sleek skin, one on the right thigh, another across the abdomen. Evidence of some violent episode of Tarrant's past.

"Soap." Vila felt another prick of annoyance. Even drunk, the man had that Alpha Citizen way about him. He resisted the temptation to leave (what temptation) and sought the requested item. There was the vague scent of vanilla to it. Then he paused a moment. Tarrant continued to lay there, waiting. A resigned sigh, and he knelt down to hand the bar over to the drunk man.

Tarrant's arm caught him off guard, and he found himself straddling Tarrant's thighs awkwardly. The pilot's hands moved up behind his neck, trapping him, pulling him down. The kiss was sloppy, catching him on the left side of the face and mouth. He grunted in astonishment, tried to pull back. Tarrant held him firmly in place, stared at him. There was no leer, only a terrible longing that tore at Vila. The look melted the last of his hesitation.

This time he took command, finding Tarrant's lips and pressing his own against them. The pilot's tongue darted out, and he grit his teeth, denying entry. Only after Tarrant quit trying to force his way did he unclench, sent his own tongue darting out. Tarrant learned quickly, quit trying to dominate, allowed Vila to set the conditions.

When they finally broke apart, both men gasped for breath. Tarrant moved his hands down Vila's arms, across his chest. Clumsily he reached underneath the tunic, seeking the flesh beneath. Vila closed his eyes and shuddered.

Touch was the one thing he craved above all others. In the Domes, touch was a part of life as central as air or food. In the halls, eating chambers, even sleeping quarters, one touched other people hundreds of times a day. It had evolved into a form of social bonding among the Deltas not shared by the upper grades.

The Liberator crew, though, had always prized their distance, physical and otherwise, from their comrades. There was only the rare, brief encounters triggered by the unbearable stress of their life to relieve the lack of contact. Vila suffered this deprivation like a flower that was kept from the sunlight.

So now Tarrant's touches sent a shudder to him, and he responded, once more kissing the younger man, his hands stroking the soft flesh beneath. His last truly coherent thought was to wonder if he should turn off the water.

Then they were on their feet again, Tarrant's back braced against the shower wall. Vila had divested himself of his clothes as they arose, and now his erection pressed against the taller man's. His hand sought the bar of soap of its own accord, pressed it against Tarrant's chest. As he began to rub the sweet-smelling bar up and down, his other hand found Tarrant's sacs, began a gentle kneading. Tarrant groaned, thrust once, helplessly. Deft fingers shifted, fingertips flicking teasingly across the head of the cock, while the rest of the hand began a rhythmic stroking. And still the other hand continued its washing.

Tarrant's hands found Vila's own erection, began duplicating the thief's moves, albeit more clumsily. Vila groaned in pleasure. Somehow, he turned the pilot into one of the jets of water, rinsing off the soap and providing additional stimulus to overexcited flesh. Tarrant's hands faltered, then resumed their own task. As they began pumping one another with more urgency, the soap dropped to the floor unnoticed. Even the effort to kiss became too much, and their universe shrunk to center around the bundle of nerves in their groins. Their breathing rasped out harshly in the stall, intermingled with moans, sobs, of passion.

Vila heard the catch in Tarrant's throat, felt the impossibly-hard rod in his hand stiffen even more. Then the pilot came, semen shooting up towards his chest, to be washed away instantly by the pleasantly warm water. Vila milked the orgasm, working Tarrant until the last spasm had passed. Tarrant's legs all but buckled, the pilot's hands stopping as the intensity of the orgasm swept him. Then Vila felt the strokes resume, forgot all else but the fire growing in his belly, the sublime pleasure of the orgasm's release.

The two men sank exhausted to the deck, Vila shutting the water off as he slid down. Tarrant's eyes were closed, and Vila struggled to keep his own open. A tenuous thread of happiness settled on him. Was this a stray interlude, another one of those Liberator incidents the crew members occasionally indulged in? Or perhaps more? Not only a truce between him and Tarrant. but an understanding? Vila drifted off to sleep with the promise of better times drifting through his brain.

"Cold." Vila blinked, managed to focus his eyes. Tarrant had awakened, and was shivering. Gooseflesh covered the tall man's body. Bed. Yes. Must put Tarrant to bed. Vila managed to rise, then pull Tarrant to his feet. Tarrant shivered from the cold, sending a pleasant tingle through Vila. But no rise of interest. Time for that later. He guided the pilot to the bed, pulled the covers up and over the man. Tarrant grasped him with an unexpectedly strong grip, the pale blue eyes staring into Vila's face with an unreadable expression.

"Vila." Again, that sober sound disguised by the drunken expression.

Vila nodded.

"Was it good?" Vila smiled, felt a surge of gratitude and pleasure that the man cared enough to ask. "As good as with him?" Tarrant gazed at him with the intensity of an athlete awaiting the results of an all-out effort.

Vila's insides turned to ice. His mind went numb, blocking the pain building in his chest. A game. He should have known, expected. Served him right to want, dream of more. He wheeled around, went back into the lavatory.

Tarrant called out his name once, twice. Vila ignored him, picked up his clothing. He considered. They were too wet, too cold to put back on. A short search found a sufficiently sized towel. He wrapped it around his waist. Let the others think what they would, if they saw him.

By the time he re-emerged, Tarrant's eyes were closed once more, the man snoring softly. He was wearing a slightly confused look even in his unconscious state. Vila didn't glance at him as he left the room.