Work Text:
Title: Perspective
by Patti
Fandom: Blakes 7
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I believe this was originally published in Gambit, at least four years ago.
RATING: G
SUMMARY: Avon's first memory.
PERSPECTIVE
By Patti
One never knew what was going to set Avon off, Blake thought.
Watching from under half-closed lids, a smile pasted on, Blake pretended to listen to Vila's prattle about his Mum making cookies and him getting caught stealing them right out of the processor. Jenna had started this, just as a way of passing the time, by asking Blake what his first memory was -- his very first. Blake had told about an impression of sitting on his father's lap while he read a story. That was all it was really, an impression. Gan had chimed in with a memory of his own "Da" working in a garden. Then Vila had started in, and Blake had become aware that something was wrong with Avon. A quick glance at Cally confirmed that she'd picked up on it as well.
The man was positively grey. He had frozen in place with a probe in one hand, a circuit board in the other, both poised in mid-air. As Blake watched, Avon lowered the items to the work table before him and turned to leave the flight deck, hands clasped tightly behind him, head bent.
Before Avon reached the top of the steps, Vila called, "Here, Avon, no running out now, what's your first memory, then? Programming a computer, I'll bet."
Without turning to face them, Avon said, "You don't want to know." And then he was gone.
Vila made a face at Gan, who shrugged. Blake moved up beside Cally. He asked, "What was that? Did you get anything?"
She shook her head. "Not really. Just . . . pain."
Blake nodded, agreeing that that was what he'd seen in eyes gone suddenly dark. This is probably a bad idea, Blake thought, but he's the one always accusing me of not caring about the crew for anything other than "cannon fodder" whatever that was. I mean to show him he's wrong, whether he'll confide in me or not.
Ten minutes later he was still trying to find the man. Irritated, Blake had tried all the usual haunts, and had begun on empty rooms they usually didn't visit.
It was fully an hour before he found Avon in a small observation room forward, high above the levels at which they usually lived on the ship. Judging by the level of liquid in the bottle on the table beside Avon, it might be wiser to leave him alone after all, Blake thought. Who could guess what liquor would do to a man like Avon?
"C'mon in, Blake," Avon said, his usual precise diction a little blurred. "Have a drink." He picked up the bottle and held it out unsteadily toward Blake without looking toward him.
Not an impossible beginning, Blake decided, and entered the room, took the bottle and drank directly from it. He held on to it and sat down across from Avon on a low stool that was probably a footstool to the padded chair Avon occupied, rolling the bottle between his palms, somehow certain the vintage wine was some of Vila's stolen goods.
Blake said, "How'd you know it was me?"
Avon smiled oddly. "You have a dis - distinctive walk," he managed. "Besides, who else would dare? Come to pry, have you?"
"No," Blake said nothing further, having long since learned that Avon would say what he was willing to say and not one word more, no matter what Blake said to try to get it out of him.
Avon reached out, grabbed the bottle from Blake, took another drink and handed it back without looking. He put his head back against the chair and closed his eyes. He was silent for so long that Blake thought perhaps he'd fallen asleep. Well, that wouldn't be so bad. Avon's mind drove him mercilessly, and he often had insomnia.
Blake took another drink and turned to look out at the stars. This was one of the few places on the ship where one could get an uncorrected view of the bizarre environment in which the Liberator moved at high speeds. He was thinking about the physics that resulted in such a view, stars red-shifted in one direction and blue-shifted in the other, when he suddenly realized Avon was speaking.
"My first memory is of hiding in the dark. It was, I think, an air vent behind my father's desk. I could just see below the desk into the study. I'd crawled in there with a pillow to sleep, which I did some times when I hadn't slept at night and wanted to be near my father. He thought it was amusing. I was . . . three? . . . four? There were men in black uniforms wrecking the room. I saw my father's body, a great, bloody wound in his chest. I shall never forget the smell of my father's blood."
The flat, reportorial tone had not wavered in the least, but Blake suppressed a wince at the image. Avon continued, as though describing something that had happened a hundred years ago to someone he neither knew nor cared about.
"The shot that killed him must have been what woke me. I heard my mother screaming. I heard a shot, and the screaming stopped."
Blake shivered and found tears in his eyes, which he blinked back, knowing how Avon would hate them.
Avon sat up suddenly, took the bottle, still not looking at Blake, and finished it in one long swallow. He put the bottle down with the concentration of the inebriated, met Blake's eyes with absolutely no expression, and said in that same matter-of-fact voice, "When they dragged me out of there, they broke my hands to make me let go of the vent grille. When the squad leader took off his helmet, it was my brother, Richard."
Blake had turned away from Avon when he'd said the part about his hands, his imagination far too vivid. The tears in his eyes had escaped by the time Avon finished, but he fancied he was being discreet about it until Avon's voice turned gentle instead of dry. "I didn't tell it to make you sad, Blake. Only to explain why I could not stay and listen to . ... the others."
Not trusting his voice, Blake nodded, wishing there were more liquor left. Avon produced another bottle, as though he'd read Blake's mind. Handing the bottle back to Avon after taking the first drink, Blake wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve and said viciously, "Damn them all to hell."
Avon's voice, when it came again, was more like his normal one. "Yes." He added, "You will not repeat this to the others."
Stricken, Blake said, "Of course not!"
Avon smiled and shook his head.
"What?!" Blake demanded.
Avon said, "You could have lived the rest of your life without hearing my sad little story, Blake. Don't you have enough bad memories of your own?"
Blake played for time by taking another drink, then stood up, staring out the port. To hell with it. He turned to face Avon and said with brutal honesty, "It seemed to me that you were in pain. I was . . .concerned. I wanted to help if I could."
Stunned as he always seemed to be by Blake's forthright kindness, Avon's venomous tones ripped at him. "It doesn't help to remember it, Blake. It only helps to remember the lessons it taught me."
Rather than let him roll on about it in his usual negative way, Blake raised his voice slightly and said, "I should think so." That stopped Avon for a moment, as it was intended to do. "For instance, that sometimes people who love you can't protect you from everything. For instance, that you can survive incredible personal tragedy. For instance, that the Federation should be utterly crushed to prevent that from happening to some other small boy."
Avon stood up. He'd gone quite white around the mouth, and Blake thought the other Alpha was on the verge of physical violence. However, Avon only said in his most velvet voice, "For example, that people who say they love you can betray you. Abandon you. For example, that 'personal tragedy' incurred early enough can leave you in some way crippled for life. For example, that you will be damned lucky if you can save even one person you care about from the bloody Federation."
Blake folded his arms to keep from shaking Avon until his teeth rattled. He said, "If I can save even one person I care about from the bloody Federation, crippled or not, it will have been worth it."
At the very edge of his control, Avon whispered, "Blake, you are a fool."
Blake smiled, letting everything he felt show in his face, and said, "I know. Lucky I have you around." He reached over, picked up the bottle, drank and handed it to Avon, who cocked his head to the side, smiled slightly, lifted the bottle in a sort of mocking salute, and drank deep.
He put the bottle down on the table and said, "Go away, Blake. I want to sleep."
"Here? Wouldn't you be more comfortable --"
"Blake," Avon warned with his tone of voice.
Blake raised both hands. "All right. I'm going." He shoved his hands in his pockets and grinned at the deck as he walked. Damn, the man was difficult. But then, Blake was stubborn. And Avon was worth it, whether he believed it or not.
The End