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Everyday Rebel Blues

By Snowgrouse
Page 1 of 1

He doesn't know I stay up every night waiting for him to return. I've got an AV linked up to his door, but I can usually hear him long before that. Footsteps stumbling in the corridor, sometimes the shattering of glass and cursing.

He doesn't know, but can probably guess. I sleep very little and wake up before he does. Every day I go over the files, arguing with him over which of our captives are rebel material. I don't think any of them are, not if they're desperate enough to end up on GP. He doesn't listen, of course. He smiles, pats me on the shoulder and tells me not to worry so much. That, of course--Blake being confident--gives me more reason to worry than anything. I don't have enough fingers to count the amount of times I've saved our necks, by exposing bounty hunters and Federation moles.

I'm logged in as "Rod Jager", one of my Federation aliases, snooping about Security recreation forums when Blake comes up behind me. He's thinking to surprise me, but I can smell the disgusting sweetness of pine-sap vodka from ten feet away. For his sake, I affect startlement.

He's in a happy mood, putting his arms around my shoulders and chuckling into my ear.

"Rod sounds like a porn star name. Are you sure about using that?"

Damn. I feed the name into a search engine, and find 6,787 results linked to gay porn vids. I never was good at word games. Blake bursts into laughter, and I can't help it, my frown loosens and I have to laugh with him.

He holds me tighter and nuzzles my hair. No prizes for guessing what he wants.

"Come to bed."

I tap a few keys, closing down the programs. No, Blake, I have to run the last of the ID checks for this week. No, Blake, I have to repair the transport comms or Klyn will have my head on a platter. No, Blake, I should be working on the...

...sod it. I turn the console off and kiss him, following him as usual.


Deva frowns even when he's asleep. I'd like to smooth his brow, but it's not often I see him this relaxed. The sex, the touching, the rest; that's all I can give him anyway, though I owe him much more. So I won't move, even if my arm is going to sleep underneath his head.

There are silver strands in his hair, only visible from this distance. Age and worry do not show there as well as they do on his face. I try to remember if his hair was a brighter red when I met him, if worrying has made it strawberry blond. Colour bleeds from all things these days, people's faces, buildings, trees. Perhaps it has bled from him as well.

I wince a little. Since when did I start thinking about gray hairs? After all, I gave up looking in the mirror a long time ago. I bathe only when Deva refuses to kiss me and drags me to the shower. Vanity is not my strong suit, it's better left to experts like Avon.

It surprises me how many *little* things I remember about Avon. His flamboyant clothes and the badly hidden packets of hair dye in his toilet cupboard, right behind the packet of condoms (I wouldn't have noticed them otherwise). Now he had been a splash of colour, even in his monochrome looks and dark glowers. Jenna complained I never noticed when she dressed in something new; I replied it was just a matter of perspective. After all, I always did notice Avon.

Damn it. The tingling's getting unbearable. I have to retrieve my arm, and Deva groans. I get up as quietly as possible, pull my trousers on, grab my shirt and shoes and tiptoe out of the room. Better to get melancholy over old times with a bottle in my own room than to bother Deva with it.


Well, whopee-fucking-doo, the comms are still on the blink. Yes, I'm fine, Blake, looking at a blank screen all day, Blake, and by the way, there's a flotilla of Fed scoutships about to ram our hangar because I couldn't fucking see them coming. It's no bloody use, I tell you. Right, I'm officially on a break.

Even the sodding coffee machine needs a kick before it yields. If it yields. Even then, it's run out of milk and sugar. And hello, good morning radio GP Arse-End Of Nowhere, the ginger tosser has nicked my mug despite the fact it says STEAL THIS CUP AND DIE. How do I know it's him? He's left his yellow fucking smiley face one unwashed and it still sits there, that's how.

I'm beginning to believe the Feds put suppressants into the water just so you wouldn't kill your co-workers. The bastards even paid me better.

Oh, there he is, Big Daddy, doing that oh-so-subtle and mock-sad eyebrow-raising thing, the usual "Klyn, you're skiving off, how could you betray my belief in your work ethic" crap. As if it's my fault the comms are dead. I refill my cup and--oh shit, he's one of in his moods again, judging by the miserable expression and the post-traumatic stress disorder eyes that *linger*. No, when he opens his mouth, I raise my hand and shake my head, just getting out of the way as quickly as possible. If he needs a little heart-to-heart he can forget about it. After he's made the propellerhead fix the damn comms, that is.

And yes, I tell him so.

He grins. I'm buggered if I know why.


There's a familiar face in the wreckage. Blake knows the boy from a hundred wanted posters and above all, the names listed underneath his FSA graduation picture. The rubble and the soot and the blood removed, Blake is startled to see the cornflower blue of the boy's eyes, the colour deep and defined and sharp.

He helps the boy up and smiles a wide smile, a smile he hasn't shown for years.

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