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corvuscornix, a little Blake's 7.
Title: Drink To Remember
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Blake's 7
Characters/Pairings: Jenna Stannis, Vila Restal. Jenna & Vila, maybe a touch Jenna/Vila
Summary: Two survivors, older and scarred, and things it's good to be wrong about
Wordcount: 704
Warnings/Notes: Set post Gauda Prime, with all that that entails. For the prompt of 'reassessment'
Disclaimer: Not mine
corvuscornix, a little Blake's 7.Title: Drink To Remember
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Blake's 7
Characters/Pairings: Jenna Stannis, Vila Restal. Jenna & Vila, maybe a touch Jenna/Vila
Summary: Two survivors, older and scarred, and things it's good to be wrong about
Wordcount: 704
Warnings/Notes: Set post Gauda Prime, with all that that entails. For the prompt of 'reassessment'
Disclaimer: Not mine
Drink To Remember
He looked different now, Jenna thought. Well, being dead would do that to you, she supposed. Being older and more tired and with a few more scars than you'd once had. Wherever you happened to bear them.
"I heard you died in a rebel shootout," she murmured quietly, helping him up the loading bay ramp, smiling faintly for the light flicker of his fingers across her hip, just to test if she had anything valuable on her person. Well. At least some things didn't change.
"And I heard you died heroically running a blockade," Vila murmured back, leaning on her with a cheerful lack of shame, though his face creased a little on 'heroically'. "And yet here you are smuggling refugees off moons. Funny the things you hear, isn't it?"
"Hmm," she agreed, steering him gently down corridors towards her personal quarters, ignoring the odd look her second in command shot her. She didn't usually get personal with the passengers. But Vila was ... Well. Vila was different, wasn't he?
"... Of course, that's not to say they're wrong, as such," he continued after a moment. Meditatively, looking curiously around her cabin, wary and suspicious and smiling casually anyway. He'd always had a touch of that, a touch of wry knowing about him, a touch of wary fear (cowardice, she'd once have said, but then she'd been different once too). It was deeper now. His fingers had touched lightly at her gun, as he limped beside her, and there had been more knowing in them than she remembered.
"Adrenalin and soma?" she offered, in lieu of an answer. She didn't have one, not just yet. He grinned, a flash of rich, genuine humour, so close for a second to the man she remembered. Jenna wasn't sure if the twinge she felt in response was pain, or something else. So she simply handed him his drink with a returning smile.
"Oh, that hits the spot," Vila laughed, his hands cupping hers for a second around the container. "You remembered that, did you?"
Jenna smiled at him. "I seem to remember long odes to its virtues, yes," she agreed, and it might have been with some regret, really, for memories of the transporter room of an alien ship and sniping back at cheerful moaning, or it might have been with some enjoyment, sniping just for now, for this moment, while he grinned at her with real delight from a face that was far too tired.
"Well, when a man's right, he's right. And he can't be wrong with adrenalin and soma, I always say."
She grinned. "Yes, you do," she teased, a gentler version of old sniping. She felt like being gentler, these days. The post-reconstruction Federation was too fractured and too cold for anything else.
He looked at her, then. Scared and scarred and so much more weary than before, so much older than he'd been even a few years beforehand. Smiling soft and crooked around a drink from better days, with his scars so plain to see. He looked at her, and reached up to gently touch her cheek, a hesitant, oddly intimate touch, with hands that had skipped so lightly and so knowingly over her weapon.
"I'm glad you didn't die at some blockade," he said, very quietly. With a touch of his old humour. "Always thought you were one of the sensible ones, you know? I like being right at least once in a while."
She grinned, bright and tired and that much older herself, leaning her cheek into his palm and cupping the back of his hand with hers. "I'm glad you didn't die in some Federation massacre," she murmured back. With the shadows of those who had sitting softly between them, and all the knowledge of those who hadn't been quite so sensible as they. And then soft, a more personal smile. "There are some things it's good to be wrong about."
Yes, she thought, seeing the differences in him, in her, thinking of courage revealed and deaths unmet. Feeling the faint tremble of his hand on her cheek, and the amused, faintly desperate suspicion in his eyes. Yes.
There were some things ... it was so very good to be wrong about.
He looked different now, Jenna thought. Well, being dead would do that to you, she supposed. Being older and more tired and with a few more scars than you'd once had. Wherever you happened to bear them.
"I heard you died in a rebel shootout," she murmured quietly, helping him up the loading bay ramp, smiling faintly for the light flicker of his fingers across her hip, just to test if she had anything valuable on her person. Well. At least some things didn't change.
"And I heard you died heroically running a blockade," Vila murmured back, leaning on her with a cheerful lack of shame, though his face creased a little on 'heroically'. "And yet here you are smuggling refugees off moons. Funny the things you hear, isn't it?"
"Hmm," she agreed, steering him gently down corridors towards her personal quarters, ignoring the odd look her second in command shot her. She didn't usually get personal with the passengers. But Vila was ... Well. Vila was different, wasn't he?
"... Of course, that's not to say they're wrong, as such," he continued after a moment. Meditatively, looking curiously around her cabin, wary and suspicious and smiling casually anyway. He'd always had a touch of that, a touch of wry knowing about him, a touch of wary fear (cowardice, she'd once have said, but then she'd been different once too). It was deeper now. His fingers had touched lightly at her gun, as he limped beside her, and there had been more knowing in them than she remembered.
"Adrenalin and soma?" she offered, in lieu of an answer. She didn't have one, not just yet. He grinned, a flash of rich, genuine humour, so close for a second to the man she remembered. Jenna wasn't sure if the twinge she felt in response was pain, or something else. So she simply handed him his drink with a returning smile.
"Oh, that hits the spot," Vila laughed, his hands cupping hers for a second around the container. "You remembered that, did you?"
Jenna smiled at him. "I seem to remember long odes to its virtues, yes," she agreed, and it might have been with some regret, really, for memories of the transporter room of an alien ship and sniping back at cheerful moaning, or it might have been with some enjoyment, sniping just for now, for this moment, while he grinned at her with real delight from a face that was far too tired.
"Well, when a man's right, he's right. And he can't be wrong with adrenalin and soma, I always say."
She grinned. "Yes, you do," she teased, a gentler version of old sniping. She felt like being gentler, these days. The post-reconstruction Federation was too fractured and too cold for anything else.
He looked at her, then. Scared and scarred and so much more weary than before, so much older than he'd been even a few years beforehand. Smiling soft and crooked around a drink from better days, with his scars so plain to see. He looked at her, and reached up to gently touch her cheek, a hesitant, oddly intimate touch, with hands that had skipped so lightly and so knowingly over her weapon.
"I'm glad you didn't die at some blockade," he said, very quietly. With a touch of his old humour. "Always thought you were one of the sensible ones, you know? I like being right at least once in a while."
She grinned, bright and tired and that much older herself, leaning her cheek into his palm and cupping the back of his hand with hers. "I'm glad you didn't die in some Federation massacre," she murmured back. With the shadows of those who had sitting softly between them, and all the knowledge of those who hadn't been quite so sensible as they. And then soft, a more personal smile. "There are some things it's good to be wrong about."
Yes, she thought, seeing the differences in him, in her, thinking of courage revealed and deaths unmet. Feeling the faint tremble of his hand on her cheek, and the amused, faintly desperate suspicion in his eyes. Yes.
There were some things ... it was so very good to be wrong about.
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