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madimpossibledreamerI cannot imagine why I'd be feeling like watching a fight against authoritarian empires again now.
Also, tsunderes are fun to write. That being said, no actual shipping, only hints.
Main Points:
Blake's 7 (probably series A/season 1, but otherwise ambiguously set)
Chapter Summary: During downtime, Blake has the idea that they should all get to know each other better, but Vila's question reveals a little more than intended.
Word Count: 1485
Rating: Teen
“What?”
Avon smirks, and doesn’t attempt to hide it; it is ridiculous and utterly in character for Blake to respond to the word ‘leader’ like a dog to its own name, shaggy head bouncing up. He knew Blake couldn’t be as enthusiastic about all these bonding exercises no matter how much excitement he put into his voice when they’d started, and he’d certainly stayed reticent and mysterious since, content to listen to the others drivel on. Avon’s only concession (which could be applied rather more broadly) is that he’d stayed. Perhaps it’s just the fact that it hadn’t been Blake’s idea—if he had any ounce of sense, which was in of itself an open question yet to be answered, the only objection to several of Avon’s ideas has to be the fact that they hadn’t been Blake’s first, a state of affairs steadily growing more and more intolerable. One does not recruit an expert and then fail to listen to a word they say.
“When was your first kiss—or more, don’t be shy.” Vila might also be drunk. Avon suspects it might be a coping mechanism for the cowardice.
“Oh, er…” He winces, apologetic. When he’s not making decisively terrible decisions or bantering with Avon, that’s what he defaults to; practically apologizing for mere existence. It’s one of the many more irritating aspects of Blake’s personality, hiding revolutionary bile behind inoffense. “I’m afraid I don’t remember.”
“Too drunk, eh?” Gan, gentle and sympathetic. They haven’t noticed what he has—it’s more than just Blake’s default response when he’s not putting on a mask to deceive the rest of these fools. He doesn’t actually want to answer, but why.
Cally’s the first to see the same thing, eyeing Blake a little more carefully, going back over what she missed. She’s a touch sharper than the rest of them, which also coincidentally makes her a touch more dangerous. It’s the hesitation, mostly. Blake’s actually thinking before he leaps, for once, carefully considering what he should say. This promises to actually be interesting for the first time this evening.
And then he makes up his mind. “It’ll ruin the mood, I’m sorry to say, and I had promised tonight to be a pleasant affair.”
Ah. Weighing whether to buy more loyalty with the currency of honesty, or stay mum and not show vulnerability to the gullible who need to follow a legend, not a man. In all likelihood.
“Well, now I’ve got to hear,” Vila slurs, eyes lighting up with the idea of a secret to steal.
“We’ve none of us happy stories,” Gan agrees quietly, supportive, and yet it’s Avon who Blake glances at, seeking eye contact, almost as if asking for permission. It’s bewildering. Avon’s not entirely sure what sort of message he happens to send, but apparently it’s enough for Blake, because he moves on smoothly as if nothing had ever happened at all.
“I don’t remember because, thanks to the Federation, my memories are foggy at best.” Well, he’d been right. This was, in fact, downright interesting, so why is something uneasy squirming in his gut? The promise of further answers; it has to be. That this is merely the thread, not the root of it all.
“What do you mean?” Jenna asks, seeking further answers, to soothe and coddle, perhaps, and Blake’s face twists, unhappily.
“The Federation has machines—to erase memories, to implant new ones. I don’t know how much is real and fabricated, but...I suspect much of what I remember from more than four years ago isn’t true. I don’t even know if the faces of my family are real; I would get vistapes, but I was told those were faked. Presumably, it’d be easier to implant images of other people, people who could then fake those tapes without the use of technology.” His voice is light, like it doesn’t bother him at all, but it’s almost certain everyone, even the most oblivious of them, at this point can tell that’s hardly the truth.
“I could help,” Cally offers, and it is patently absurd how they all trip over each other in trying to be helpful, and how that’s largely limited to Blake—Avon can’t be sure they aren’t all just aiding each other and ignoring anything he might need simply because they don’t like him, but he suspects.
“No, thank you, Cally. I wouldn’t like to trouble you,” Blake responds immediately, which makes Avon seethe, though he takes care not to show it. He couldn’t have designed a more self-effacing, self-sacrificing parody if he’d tried, and the whole thing is utterly absurd.
“But wouldn’t it be trouble if the Federation took advantage of that somehow?” Vila, sounding a little more sober in the slight horror of it all, actually manages to voice a vaguely useful thought for once.
Even Blake can’t argue in the face of that—though likely more at the thought of him putting his precious rebellion in jeopardy than anything resembling a normal human emotion. “Perhaps I should take you up on that offer, Cally—though perhaps not tonight.” They had all of them had at least a little to drink, though none so much as Vila.
Vila gets up, taking an entire bottle in a manner that he undoubtedly considers subtle, awkwardly patting Blake on the shoulder as he goes, probably to his own room to try to drink away even the memory of this. Gan’s clap on the shoulder is considerably more hearty and supportive. Jenna draws Blake into a conversation, trying to distract, and Blake certainly makes a valiant effort to be present and encouraging of the effort until she, too, tires of the enterprise and withdraws. Cally sits, quiet and contemplative, probably trying to determine an angle of attack, until she comes to some sort of conclusion and leaves as well with a smile. They sit briefly in silence until with a sigh that suggests the weight of the world, Blake gets to his feet, slow in a way that declares he’s either managed to get himself wounded again without thinking to mention it to anyone, or he’s pushing himself too far and too fast again, or, likely, both.
“I’d heard they were working on perfecting those machines.” Avon’s voice is dry, academic, stopping him from leaving, but Blake doesn’t bristle. Perhaps he flinches. It’s hard to tell, with the lights darkened.
He merely snorts, not happy, but genuinely amused all the same. “I’m not sure I’d call them ‘perfected’. I also suspect they didn’t care, only that they functioned well enough for their purposes.”
It is gratifying and enraging all at once to know that even in such a short acquaintance they have reached the point where Avon can understand Blake perfectly. He hopes the reverse isn’t true. “There are side effects.”
“None that impair my judgment—at least, no more than usual, according to you.” He might be smiling, but this is a deeply seated pain or fear, tucked snug into Blake’s breast. If yanked out, a spattering of blood would follow.
“Tell me,” Avon challenges, and Blake breathes in, shivering. It must be bothering him too much for him to stay silent, because he continues.
“The occasional headache. Memories feeling unreal when they hadn’t the day before. Twice I’ve lost track of time and don’t remember what happened in between, though apparently I sounded entirely lucid.”
“When,” Avon snaps, because he is losing patience with reeling in this obstinate fish, or metaphorical facsimile thereof.
“On Cygnus Alpha. I was tortured—I gathered as much from the wounds after, but I don’t remember anything about the process of actually getting them, though I suspect it had something to do with Vargas. And then, when we nearly lost Cally—why are you smiling?”
Because he’s just solved a puzzle and gained new knowledge, much of which happens to be useful. “Oh, that’s probably not due to the memory alteration, although I admit I’m no neurosurgeon or psychiatrist. That sounds like dissociation, specifically related to your trauma.”
“Oh, thank God.” The response is immediate and heartfelt, before the reality of what has just occurred occurs to Blake and he turns confused and thoughtful, raising an eyebrow.
“If you’re going to call me God, I won’t object.” Blake’s smile is wry, but he doesn’t protest. Apparently he’s merely accepting that one. “Perhaps if you’re not so busy concentrating on imaginary failures, you can regret your actual ones instead.” It would be a relief if Blake’s own brain could do some of that work, rather than leaving it all to Avon.
Blake merely smiles softly instead. “Thank you, Avon.”
He leaves before Avon can mutter a word of protest or get one final cutting remark in.
Also, tsunderes are fun to write. That being said, no actual shipping, only hints.
Main Points:
Blake's 7 (probably series A/season 1, but otherwise ambiguously set)
Chapter Summary: During downtime, Blake has the idea that they should all get to know each other better, but Vila's question reveals a little more than intended.
Word Count: 1485
Rating: Teen
As are many of Vila’s ideas of pastimes, this is less of a pastime and more of a waste of time. “Well? How about our fearless leader?”
“What?”
Avon smirks, and doesn’t attempt to hide it; it is ridiculous and utterly in character for Blake to respond to the word ‘leader’ like a dog to its own name, shaggy head bouncing up. He knew Blake couldn’t be as enthusiastic about all these bonding exercises no matter how much excitement he put into his voice when they’d started, and he’d certainly stayed reticent and mysterious since, content to listen to the others drivel on. Avon’s only concession (which could be applied rather more broadly) is that he’d stayed. Perhaps it’s just the fact that it hadn’t been Blake’s idea—if he had any ounce of sense, which was in of itself an open question yet to be answered, the only objection to several of Avon’s ideas has to be the fact that they hadn’t been Blake’s first, a state of affairs steadily growing more and more intolerable. One does not recruit an expert and then fail to listen to a word they say.
“When was your first kiss—or more, don’t be shy.” Vila might also be drunk. Avon suspects it might be a coping mechanism for the cowardice.
“Oh, er…” He winces, apologetic. When he’s not making decisively terrible decisions or bantering with Avon, that’s what he defaults to; practically apologizing for mere existence. It’s one of the many more irritating aspects of Blake’s personality, hiding revolutionary bile behind inoffense. “I’m afraid I don’t remember.”
“Too drunk, eh?” Gan, gentle and sympathetic. They haven’t noticed what he has—it’s more than just Blake’s default response when he’s not putting on a mask to deceive the rest of these fools. He doesn’t actually want to answer, but why.
Cally’s the first to see the same thing, eyeing Blake a little more carefully, going back over what she missed. She’s a touch sharper than the rest of them, which also coincidentally makes her a touch more dangerous. It’s the hesitation, mostly. Blake’s actually thinking before he leaps, for once, carefully considering what he should say. This promises to actually be interesting for the first time this evening.
And then he makes up his mind. “It’ll ruin the mood, I’m sorry to say, and I had promised tonight to be a pleasant affair.”
Ah. Weighing whether to buy more loyalty with the currency of honesty, or stay mum and not show vulnerability to the gullible who need to follow a legend, not a man. In all likelihood.
“Well, now I’ve got to hear,” Vila slurs, eyes lighting up with the idea of a secret to steal.
“We’ve none of us happy stories,” Gan agrees quietly, supportive, and yet it’s Avon who Blake glances at, seeking eye contact, almost as if asking for permission. It’s bewildering. Avon’s not entirely sure what sort of message he happens to send, but apparently it’s enough for Blake, because he moves on smoothly as if nothing had ever happened at all.
“I don’t remember because, thanks to the Federation, my memories are foggy at best.” Well, he’d been right. This was, in fact, downright interesting, so why is something uneasy squirming in his gut? The promise of further answers; it has to be. That this is merely the thread, not the root of it all.
“What do you mean?” Jenna asks, seeking further answers, to soothe and coddle, perhaps, and Blake’s face twists, unhappily.
“The Federation has machines—to erase memories, to implant new ones. I don’t know how much is real and fabricated, but...I suspect much of what I remember from more than four years ago isn’t true. I don’t even know if the faces of my family are real; I would get vistapes, but I was told those were faked. Presumably, it’d be easier to implant images of other people, people who could then fake those tapes without the use of technology.” His voice is light, like it doesn’t bother him at all, but it’s almost certain everyone, even the most oblivious of them, at this point can tell that’s hardly the truth.
“I could help,” Cally offers, and it is patently absurd how they all trip over each other in trying to be helpful, and how that’s largely limited to Blake—Avon can’t be sure they aren’t all just aiding each other and ignoring anything he might need simply because they don’t like him, but he suspects.
“No, thank you, Cally. I wouldn’t like to trouble you,” Blake responds immediately, which makes Avon seethe, though he takes care not to show it. He couldn’t have designed a more self-effacing, self-sacrificing parody if he’d tried, and the whole thing is utterly absurd.
“But wouldn’t it be trouble if the Federation took advantage of that somehow?” Vila, sounding a little more sober in the slight horror of it all, actually manages to voice a vaguely useful thought for once.
Even Blake can’t argue in the face of that—though likely more at the thought of him putting his precious rebellion in jeopardy than anything resembling a normal human emotion. “Perhaps I should take you up on that offer, Cally—though perhaps not tonight.” They had all of them had at least a little to drink, though none so much as Vila.
Vila gets up, taking an entire bottle in a manner that he undoubtedly considers subtle, awkwardly patting Blake on the shoulder as he goes, probably to his own room to try to drink away even the memory of this. Gan’s clap on the shoulder is considerably more hearty and supportive. Jenna draws Blake into a conversation, trying to distract, and Blake certainly makes a valiant effort to be present and encouraging of the effort until she, too, tires of the enterprise and withdraws. Cally sits, quiet and contemplative, probably trying to determine an angle of attack, until she comes to some sort of conclusion and leaves as well with a smile. They sit briefly in silence until with a sigh that suggests the weight of the world, Blake gets to his feet, slow in a way that declares he’s either managed to get himself wounded again without thinking to mention it to anyone, or he’s pushing himself too far and too fast again, or, likely, both.
“I’d heard they were working on perfecting those machines.” Avon’s voice is dry, academic, stopping him from leaving, but Blake doesn’t bristle. Perhaps he flinches. It’s hard to tell, with the lights darkened.
He merely snorts, not happy, but genuinely amused all the same. “I’m not sure I’d call them ‘perfected’. I also suspect they didn’t care, only that they functioned well enough for their purposes.”
It is gratifying and enraging all at once to know that even in such a short acquaintance they have reached the point where Avon can understand Blake perfectly. He hopes the reverse isn’t true. “There are side effects.”
“None that impair my judgment—at least, no more than usual, according to you.” He might be smiling, but this is a deeply seated pain or fear, tucked snug into Blake’s breast. If yanked out, a spattering of blood would follow.
“Tell me,” Avon challenges, and Blake breathes in, shivering. It must be bothering him too much for him to stay silent, because he continues.
“The occasional headache. Memories feeling unreal when they hadn’t the day before. Twice I’ve lost track of time and don’t remember what happened in between, though apparently I sounded entirely lucid.”
“When,” Avon snaps, because he is losing patience with reeling in this obstinate fish, or metaphorical facsimile thereof.
“On Cygnus Alpha. I was tortured—I gathered as much from the wounds after, but I don’t remember anything about the process of actually getting them, though I suspect it had something to do with Vargas. And then, when we nearly lost Cally—why are you smiling?”
Because he’s just solved a puzzle and gained new knowledge, much of which happens to be useful. “Oh, that’s probably not due to the memory alteration, although I admit I’m no neurosurgeon or psychiatrist. That sounds like dissociation, specifically related to your trauma.”
“Oh, thank God.” The response is immediate and heartfelt, before the reality of what has just occurred occurs to Blake and he turns confused and thoughtful, raising an eyebrow.
“If you’re going to call me God, I won’t object.” Blake’s smile is wry, but he doesn’t protest. Apparently he’s merely accepting that one. “Perhaps if you’re not so busy concentrating on imaginary failures, you can regret your actual ones instead.” It would be a relief if Blake’s own brain could do some of that work, rather than leaving it all to Avon.
Blake merely smiles softly instead. “Thank you, Avon.”
He leaves before Avon can mutter a word of protest or get one final cutting remark in.
