As Vila’s fingers slid on the teleport buttons, his gaze lingered idly on Avon’s dematerialising figure. As usual, he longingly appraised the tight, neat bum encased in the leather gear. He was busy engaging in some private fantasies when Avon materialized again in the teleport bay, just seconds after disappearing.
Middle height, dark... but not Avon! Vila jumped up as he realized the figure in the teleport was a stranger. The intruder crumpled on the deck. All the better, thought Vila as he hit the call button.
“Blake!” His voice was nearly hysterical. Vila had never taken well to having his routine disturbed. “There’s someone here… he just appeared out of nowhere, and I wouldn’t like to be alone with him when he wakes up!”
Blake moved ponderously through the corridors. Vila could hear him approaching the teleport deck. He sighed, relieved that this was no longer his responsibility.
Blake bent over the unmoving, untidy bundle of a man sprawled on the deck. He was rather good-looking, in a macho way. Dark hair, a pert little (well, not so little) chin and a wide, generous mouth. Good figure, too. Looked trim and fit. Blake gave a rueful if passing thought to his own over-generous, somewhat flabby person. He prodded the fallen man with a cautious finger and flinched when the man moaned.
“Illya? What are you doing? Stop jabbing my ribs… I could think of a better use for those nimble fingers of yours…” Then his eyes opened. As dark as Avon’s, but kinder. Anyway, mused Blake, no one could harbour as much venom in his eyes as Avon does. The generic aspic gaze, Avon has. If looks could kill… But this stranger had nice, twinkling eyes, even in his semi-conscious state.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I mistook you for someone else,” Napoleon said.
I could tell, Blake thought. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?” he said aloud.“
Name’s Napoleon Solo. What have you done with Illya? Where is he?”
Blake considered the question seriously, as he did most things. “I haven’t done anything with…Illya? As yet I’ve never met him. I’ve never met you either, for that matter, so I’d like to know what you are doing on my teleport deck!
*His teleport deck,* Vila thought. *I wonder who’s gone and made him god.*
“I’m here under protest. Where is here, by the way?
“You’re on board the Liberator, and I’m Blake,” Blake said, and waited expectantly for the penny to drop.
But as things turned out, Blake had to explain himself much more fully than he would have thought. Napoleon was a tough customer, and he was not satisfied until he understood everything. When Blake realized the intruder came from another time frame, he blanched – realizing that Avon was most probably lost somewhere in this guy’s original era…
He could not have been more mistaken. Avon had remained in his own time frame, but he was now a prisoner of Servalan. The same time quirk which had brought Napoleon to the Liberator had sent him straight to Servalan’s command station, where he had been collared and put in custody before he could even draw breath. He had a companion for his captivity. A small, blond weakling of a man, longhaired, blue eyed. Avon did not think much of him; but then, he was used to dismissing offhand all his fellow human beings – except Blake, who was too obnoxious to ignore.
But this little runt kept intruding, questioning him and generally making a nuisance of himself until Avon finally listened to him. It was, in fact, easier to do so than to try and continue to ignore him.
A few hours later, Avon was subdued, misty-eyed and thoroughly taken with the little sod. Blue-eyed wonder boys had always been his foible. It was sheer luck that Blake was big and dark, or he could have run Avon ragged by playing on his baser instincts. As it was, little Illya had actually been running Avon ragged!
“You see, Avon, I’ve always had this… weakness for tall, dark and handsome men.”
Avon preened. Being called ‘tall’ was a rare treat for him.
“If only I could say so to my partner… he’s the embodiment of all my dreams… and he only love women! Women, I ask you!”
Don’t, Avon though, panicking.
“What could I do, Avon?” The baby-blue eyes rose questioningly to him.
Avon could no more turn him down than he could kill an innocent child (well, he could, but that wouldn’t do his image a lot of good, now would it?)
“Have you tried telling him? You might be surprised at his answer.” If he doesn’t kill you, he might love you. God knows, you’re lovable enough, in a mushy sort of way. Only takes the right bloke. I’d rather fuck you than leave you, but there’s no accounting for tastes. “You should try to tell him, Illya, really.” If you – and I – ever get back to our own time and place. “It would do you a world of good. If your teeth remain affixed to your gum, you might even try and kiss him. “Even if he should turn you down, at least you’ll know where you stand.” Or where you lie, for that matter, if he decides to flatten you.
“You may be right. Anyway, I can’t stand it anymore. When I find Napoleon, I’m going to confess how I feel. We can’t afford to lose any more time.”
“Time is of the essence,” Avon said idly. His fickle mind had already lost interest in the blond and he was busy dreaming of all the naughty things he’ll do to Blake when – if – he found his way out of this jail – and none of those things was sexual in nature.
Illya, rather put out by the little (very little) result of his strategy, disgustedly pulled up and zipped Avon’s trousers. These leather guys where all the same, all brawn and no stamina.
It would be a lie to say that Blake was experiencing the same problems. Napoleon had stamina, all right. Almost too much, to tell the truth! But then, Blake had stamina too, having fantasised on his handsome, reluctant rebel of a friend for quite a long time. Napoleon was a passable substitute. And he was fucking like a god. Well, Blake had never actually been fucked by a god, but he was nonetheless ready to testify that Napoleon was the next best thing. In the mushy afterglow of their rather savage coupling, Blake confessed his unrequited lust for Avon, and was given sound advice: tell him, and to hell with the consequences. Rather simple, but to the point. Such a strategy had never occurred to Blake, whose mind usually took more circuitous ways. He decided to give it some serious consideration.
Things finally resolved themselves neatly. At least, it was best that they did not wait for human intervention. The time quirk closed, and Napoleon was unerringly snatched off the Liberator - out of Blake’s cabin, to be precise. Avon materialized back in the very place Napoleon had been – lying full length on Blake’s aroused and willing body.
It saved them quite some explaining!
Napoleon had very little doubt what Illya and the stranger who had taken his place – this *Avon* character – had been doing together. No one could mistake the sixty-nine position for anything else. Napoleon, being the tough agent he was, took everything in his stride. Illya was overwhelmed. All his dreams had come true. He sent a very warm, grateful thought to the dark stranger who’d come from another universe to grant him his heart’s desire. He would forever keep a special place in his heart for the handsome rebel…
Even separated by the closed time quirk, those sweet thoughts permeated the continuum and percolated slowly but steadily into the space occupied by the Liberator and its crew, to finally reach Avon’s befuddled brain.
Blake was surprised when Avon suddenly bolted off the bed and into the bathroom. The retching sounds puzzled him. Avon came back after a while, pale and shaking. “Never could stand sweets…” he muttered before collapsing untidily on the bed.
I wish he’d keep to his own half of the bed, Blake thought ruefully. These bunks are small and I’m bigger than he is… ah, damn, I must love him if I accept sleeping on a fifteen-inch space while he occupies most of the bed and hogs all the covers!
He gave a tender look to the already-sleeping man lying next to him. Love… he mused; who’d thought I’d find it in this nasty-tempered, immoral, obnoxious, sexy, adorable, beautiful little flower?
The emanation of Blake’s sweet, mushy thoughts went unerringly to poor Avon’s brain. The curly-haired rebel never understood why his newfound love (whose qualities he appraised mentally during the whole sleepless night) bolted again to the loo to empty his stomach. And kept doing so until morning…