Decisions

When the Liberator had finally outrun the last of the pursuit ships, her crew left the flight deck silently, one by one. It had been three hours of headlong, desperate flight since the disastrous attack on Central Control and Gan's body crumpled in a fallen corridor. And in that time hardly any of them had spoken, except to relay necessary commands or warnings. A bitter silence reigned, terminated finally by Jenna's announcement, in a voice thick with exhaustion, that the screens were clear. One by one the little group scattered and disappeared into the dark metal corridor, not speaking to each other. And especially not to Blake, who watched them go with anguish in his deep brown eyes. Vila sidled quickly by, avoiding the rebel leader's gaze. Cally did not break stride as she passed him. Blake caught Jenna's arm as she levered herself out of the pilot's position, helping her to her feet; but she only glanced at him, and then let her eyes slide past him to the communications console. High above them both, Gan's absence was a gaping hole. She held the stare for a long moment, then coldly returned her eyes to Blake. He let her arm drop, and she turned and walked away without a word.

Avon, who had the late watch, was left alone with Blake on the flight deck, and he spared the man no more attention or pity than the others. Blake's eyes were filled with guilt, and it served him right, thought Avon. Blake had killed Gan, led him into what he knew was a death-trap for them all. It was a miracle that only the gentle, giant labour-grade had died, letting the rest of them escape to the ship and the harrowing run from Federation hunter-killers. Avon did not bother to look up from his work as the larger man's footsteps approached him, paused uncertainly, and then slowly, heavily, went away.

Avon, himself, had plenty to keep him busy. Several crucial elements of the nav systems had been burnt out by near-misses from plasma bolts; components were destroyed and program code scrambled by the raging magnetic bursts. Rigorously, thoroughly, he replaced, checked, wrote new code. The intricate, detailed systems served to keep him occupied, and whenever he found his thoughts drifting to the events on Earth he brutally brought himself back to the work at hand.

But he could not seem to keep his mind occupied by the tedious business of repair. His vision blurred, and before his eyes was, not the circuitry boards, but the stark, white, empty room they had found on Earth, echoing with Travis' laughter. Blake's hands, clutching at him. Blake's eyes as he told them Gan was dead and shoved them forward. Angrily, he pushed the picture away. Blake was a fool, a blind revolutionary, and he was a fool as well for not insisting that they pull out of the deadly venture the moment he had realized that Blake was lying to them.

He had bent over the console again, smelling the faint odor of charred wiring, when he heard footsteps on the entry ramp. Someone who couldn't sleep, he thought, but before he turned to see he knew who stood there, so silently behind him.

Blake was still dressed, though it was late. His eyes were puffed and bloodshot; with a shock, quickly suppressed, Avon realized that the man had been crying. He felt a sudden surge of sympathy, followed quickly by resentment. Whatever self-flagellation Blake was indulging in, he deserved. Avon straightened, laying his hands on the control boards. "Blake." His voice was cool, neutral.

Blake's was hoarse. "Avon, can I talk with you? I need to talk to someone..."

"I see nothing to discuss."

"Avon, can't you..." He broke off, and took a breath. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for everything. I should have pulled us out, and because I didn't, Gan died. I know that."

"As do we all. Don't come to me for moral absolution, Blake, I'm not in the business. Your reckless actions risked all our lives, and you killed Gan."

Blake fell back from the harsh words, crossing the flight deck heavily and slumping onto the couch below Avon's console. He buried his face in his hands for a moment, then rubbed his eyes roughly and looked up. "I know. And I'd give anything I could to change that. But I can't! And everyone... You all resent me, I know that. But Avon, please, don't shut me out! I can't bear it." Tears began to roll down his cheeks; incongruously, he snuffled angrily and grimaced. "I'm not a military man, Avon, not some general callously sending men to their deaths. But Gan wasn't the first to die, and he won't be the last, because of me. And it tears me up! It was so unnecessary! God, Avon, I love you all, all of you, and I was such a fool..." He was crying hard now, tears running down his cheeks and dropping onto his sweat-stained brown tunic. With a sob, he turned away from Avon, into the corner of the couch, and buried his head in his arms, shaking.

Slowly, Avon pushed aside the tools he had been using and walked down the few steps to the central area of the flight deck. He resented the rebel leader's emotionalism. You're right, he said silently. You are a fool, and a dangerous one at that. Yet the sight of Blake, sobbing, reduced to this, woke strange feelings in him. Blake had made a terrible mistake, and Gan had died for it. Remembering the guilt he still felt for Anna's useless, lonely death, Avon felt a twinge of sympathy. Without quite knowing why, he came to the couch and stood over Blake's shaking form.

"Blake, stop. There's no need for this, Blake." Slowly, Avon reached out a hand and put it on the sobbing man's shoulder. He sat down on the couch and Blake surprised him by throwing himself into his arms; Avon almost flinched away, but Blake only clung to him, sobbing in his arms. Awkwardly, Avon put his arms around the bigger man and held him. "It's all right, Blake," he muttered. He felt like a fool.

With his arms wrapped around the silent technician, his face hidden in the dark shoulder, Blake cried for a long time. When Avon shifted once, his hands tightened almost desperately on the narrow waist and Avon stilled again, his own arms lying lightly on Blake's back. Eventually Blake's sobs diminished to strained gasps and hiccoughs, and his breathing slowed and steadied again, though he kept his face buried in Avon's neck. Avon held him the whole time. He found it oddly comforting to give comfort to the other man; although he still resented Blake's recklessness, Blake was clearly punishing himself better than Avon ever could. Or would. Avon remembered the anguish he had felt on learning of Anna's death, and gently stroked Blake's shoulder as it rose and fell with his breathing.

Calmed, Blake shifted a bit, and Avon drew back to let him go. But instead, Blake tightened his arms, and nestled his head against Avon's neck. The luxurious curls brushed his skin as Blake turned slightly, and then, without warning, pressed a kiss into the hollow of the other man's neck.

Avon flinched violently, then froze as Blake pulled him close. "Don't, Avon," he whispered. "It's all right. Don't run away from me." And he kissed him again, lightly, where the pulse ran under the skin.

Avon held himself motionless, hardly hearing what Blake was saying. The comforting but impersonal embrace had become something else, and he was acutely aware of the other man's lips on him. He had never been attracted to men, scarcely to anyone in the last two years. Now here was Blake, whom he had drawn into his arms without quite understanding why, only knowing that he wanted to, pressing kisses on him. Part of him wanted to run, to throw the other man off and leave him behind, leave them all behind. But Blake was holding him, embracing him as no one had in years, and another part of him wanted so badly to relax into those strong arms, to be held against Blake's chest. Loneliness struggled with fear, and the tentative stirrings of desire. In the end he did nothing, only left his arms around the other man and remained motionless as Blake's hands slid along his back.

Blake trailed a line of light kisses along Avon's throat and jaw, then freed one hand to open the leather jacket and shirt. His hand slipped inside to stroke the other's chest, and Avon shivered when Blake's fingers brushed across a nipple. Blake pressed another kiss into the hollows of Avon's neck and then pulled back slightly, looking into the dark eyes so close to his. Avon's expression was faintly belligerent, but at the same time uncertain; his gaze met Blake's for only a few seconds before slipping past the other man. Blake's own brown eyes were too deep, too full; he was afraid, somehow, of drowning in them, of being unable to get out. He looked resolutely past Blake's shoulder and swallowed.

Blake took Avon's chin in his hand and turned the other man to face him. Avon closed his eyes, only to feel Blake's lips come down gently on his own. The kiss was soft, undemanding. Blake's tongue gently trailed along his own closed lips, seeking admittance. They parted slightly, without his own volition, and Blake's tongue explored his mouth, licking his teeth and calling forth his own hesitant response.

When Blake felt Avon's tongue stroking his own, he caught his breath and pulled Avon close, with a hand behind the dark head. Their mouths crushed together, licking and stroking; Blake sucked on the other man's tongue and Avon, startled, made a small sound of surprise and pleasure. Blake smiled, breaking the kiss to whisper, "It will be all right, Avon. You'll see..." He brushed the tip of his tongue across a closed eyelid and Avon shuddered, but pulled himself closer to Blake, his hands reflexively kneading Blake's waist.

Blake shifted a little, freeing both hands to unfasten Avon's jacket and shirt completely and push them back over his shoulders. Avon made no move to stop him, but let Blake squirm out of his arms long enough to strip the clothing off him and toss it to the floor. Naked to the waist, Avon met Blake's eyes for a moment, then dropped his gaze slightly. Blake smiled and pulled his own shirt off. Avon only watched, his hands lying loosely on his thighs. Blake put his palms against the other's dark-furred chest, running his fingers through the hair. Taking a nipple between thumb and finger he played with it, lightly, until it rose to his touch, and Avon felt arousal uncurl in his groin. He licked his dry lips and put his hands on Blake's bare shoulders. The skin was warm and inviting; he stroked down the muscular arms, watching Blake's own nipples erect. With a hand on Blake's chest he could feel the other's heart beating.

Blake pulled him into another kiss, the heat of their bare chests rubbing together. Eyes closed again, Avon felt himself being gently pushed to lie back on the couch and Blake's mouth left his to trail down his neck to his chest. A tongue circled his left nipple, then his right, and Avon gasped as the touch sent sparks to his groin. He could feel his cock swelling as Blake's hand rubbed across his stomach. A finger gently invaded his navel, followed by a tongue; another finger traced his ear. He turned his head and opened his eyes to see Blake kneeling on the floor by the couch. Sensing his gaze, Blake looked up from kissing the skin below his ribs to meet his eyes. There was passion in Blake's eyes, confusion and veiled passion in Avon's.

"Blake, why... what are you..." Avon choked on the words. Afraid that Blake would stop, afraid that he wouldn't, he could only look into the brown eyes so close to his. His erection throbbed; he held himself still.

Blake took his hand and kissed the fingertips. "It's all right, Avon. Trust me." He pressed another kiss in Avon's palm and then laid the hand against his cheek, tilting his head into it. "You helped me, held me-- I want to hold you. To love you." With his other hand he stroked Avon's face, traced the lips with his thumb. "Is it all right, Avon?" His eyes caught Avon's, caught and softly held.

Avon could not speak. Blake knelt, unmoving, watching him with concern and desire warring in his expression. Avon's left hand, hidden against the couch, clenched into a fist, then uncurled slowly. His right hand, held to Blake's cheek, slid to the nape of the waiting man's neck, and Avon hesitantly wound his fingers into the rich curls. It was all he could do.

Blake stroked Avon's cheek lightly. Avon's eyes closed again and his lips parted slightly, trembling. Leaning forward, Blake kissed him deeply. His tongue sought out the depths of the other man's mouth; Avon groaned slightly at the invading thrusts. His hips moved involuntarily, and in response Blake's hand slid along his chest and stomach, to the waistband of the brown trousers. He paused, rubbing the flat abdomen; Avon kept his eyes closed and pulled Blake's mouth harder against his own. He felt Blake's hand lightly cover the bulge of his erection. Fingers traced the length of his cock, uncomfortably bent down along his thigh, and then slid under to cup his balls through the tight leather. Avon shivered and moaned into Blake's mouth.

Gentle fingers unfastened Avon's pants and pushed them down over his hips, urging him to raise his buttocks. Flushed with self-conscious desire, Avon sat up to pull off his boots, and Blake took the opportunity to stand and strip naked. When both men were nude, Blake pulled Avon up to stand against him, one hand in the dark hair as he worked their mouths together, his tongue thrusting. His other hand ranged over Avon's back and buttocks, stroking and squeezing. Their erections bumped and rubbed. Avon's own hands wandered to the firm cheeks of Blake's ass.

Blake broke the kiss to slide his body down along Avon's, licking a trail from his mouth, along his chest and stomach, to his pubic hair and the head of his swollen, bobbing cock. Avon gasped as Blake trailed the tip of his tongue lightly over the shaft, and knotted his fingers in the curls of Blake's bowed head. The warm mouth sent flames of desire coursing through him; as Blake sucked his cock in Avon staggered and almost fell. Blake grabbed at his ass, steadying him, and pushed him down to sit on the couch. Kneeling between Avon's legs, he resumed sucking, rolling Avon's balls in one hand and rubbing his chest and stomach with the other. The tension built unbearably in Avon's groin; it had been so long, and Blake's mouth was afire, demanding... His fingers dug into Blake's skull and he thrust upward, gasping and panting, into the passionate mouth and busy tongue until he cried out and erupted, flooding Blake's mouth with hot sperm.

Blake swallowed and continued to cradle Avon's cock in his mouth, gently tonguing it as it softened. He licked the last drops from the tip and let it slip into his hand, holding it as he moved to sit beside Avon on the narrow couch. Circling Avon's shoulder with his other arm, he pulled the still-shaking man to him, kissing his hair as his breathing slowed.

Avon huddled against Blake's chest, still gasping slightly in the aftermath of orgasm. Blake's muscular thigh pressed against his own, and Blake's erect cock thrust up toward his eyes. The heartbeat under his ear was rapid, and Blake's hands soon began to stroke his back and waist again, fingers digging into the firm muscles. His chin was caught and lifted, and Blake took a long, passionate kiss. Avon's own arms held Blake tightly; Blake squirmed and loosened Avon's grasp, taking Avon's right hand in his left and guiding it to his throbbing erection.

"Touch me... Avon, touch me, please..." He wrapped Avon's fingers around the hard shaft and pumped it. After a moment Avon took the rhythm away from him, drawing his tight grasp along the sensitive underside and rubbing his thumb through the tiny drops that winked at the tip. Blake moaned and thrust into Avon's grip; one hand dug desperately at Avon's side and the other scrabbled at the cloth of the couch. His buttocks clenched and clenched again; he cried Avon's name in a long breath and shot semen into the air, splattering his stomach and the hand that held him. "Avon," he murmured again, and buried his face in the dark-haired man's neck.

Avon held himself motionless as Blake's heaving body slowly calmed to even breathing. The softening cock shrank in his hand; drying semen was sticky between his fingers. The smell rose in the air, sickly sweet in his nostrils. Blake's hand moved across his back, assuredly, possessively. Avon's stomach twisted; a cold, terrible fear began to pull the warmth from his arms and hands, from his bare feet. Horror pooled in his gut. Blake stirred, inhaled deeply and nuzzled at his throat, and Avon started and let go, pulling away from Blake's body, ignoring the other man's wince as the stuck skin parted.

"Avon?" Blake opened his eyes, questioning.

"You--" Avon's jaw clenched, his teeth gritted together on the word. Blake's hands reached for him, those skillful, manipulative hands, and he wrenched away. Nausea rose in his throat, mixed with fear and anger. "You manipulative, seducing, calculating bastard-- what have you--" He choked. His stomach cramped; he was cold all over. Naked, vulnerable-- a desperate pride won the battle to keep from covering himself with his hands. His right hand was sticky and tacky, and he held it away from his body.

"Avon, what's wrong? Didn't you... Didn't you like it?"

"Like it? Oh, you'll stoop to anything, won't you, Blake? Lies, seduction, anything to bind me to you, betray--"

"Avon, I haven't...wouldn't betray you!" Blake reached for him; Avon backed away from the couch. His feet met the tumble of clothing, and he snatched his pants from the pile. Open, exposed, vulnerable-- he jammed his legs into his pants, shaking. You seduced me, you lied to me, you set me up, his thoughts burned like wires in his brain... too close, too dangerous... "You bastard!" he spat and spun away. Blake's hand closed on his arm.

"Let go." The words hissed between his teeth.

"Avon, please--"

"Let go or I swear I'll kill you, Blake." His voice was ice and shook with hatred. Blake's hand fell away, and Avon snatched his clothes and threw himself across the flight deck, bare feet thudding dully in the corridor.

The moment he was inside his cabin he slammed the lock switch and leaned on the wall by the door, trembling violently. You thought you had me, didn't you, Blake, he screamed in his mind, right where you wanted me, trusting you, trusting you... His fists clenched and the dried, gluey semen on his hand cracked. Revolted, he stumbled into the small washroom and held his hand under the tap, hot water pouring through his fingers; the smell rose and mingled with his own sweat, and his stomach cramped again. He stripped and stepped blindly into the shower stall and hit the control. The water cascaded over his body, drenched his hair, washed away the pools in his eyes, returned a little warmth to his hands and feet. His shivering slowed, but his frantic inner voice continued to shout.

Trust no one and nothing, Blake... you can't trap me! Nothing's too low for you, is it? To take-- He caught up the soap and began scrubbing himself viciously. I should know better than to listen to a raving idiot like Blake; I'll take this ship the next chance I get and to hell with them all! He rinsed off the soap and started again. To take me, lure me, dupe me, set me up... Well, I'm not one of your cow-eyed admirers, Blake. You won't have a chance to betray me, I won't let you get close to it. The fear in his belly was coalescing into anger. Smug bastard, thought you had me... When all he could smell was soap and clean water, he shut off the shower and dried himself in front of the air jets.

Picking up his pants, he left the washroom. The rest of his clothes lay puddled where he had dropped them; mechanically he tossed them into the laundry chute and crossed, nude, to his closet. His hand paused on a sleeprobe, but then he turned and pulled out black trousers, a shirt and tight black jacket, heavy leather boots. He felt better when he had dressed.

"You can't do that to me, Blake," he said aloud. "You can't get me that way."

It was four in the morning, ship's time. He crossed to the narrow bed and sank onto it, sighing. Without meaning to, he slept.

Avon awoke with the impression of strange dreams, someone calling out to him as he closed his ears and would not listen. A vague sense of loneliness. He forced it from his mind and swung off the bed, running his fingers through his short hair.

When he stepped into the corridor he could hear the others talking quietly in the lounge, Vila's habitual whine over Jenna's deep voice. Breakfast dishes clattered. He turned and headed to the flight deck. Cally had the morning watch.

But when he stepped into the doorway it was Blake he saw. The big man paced the flight deck, snapping ill-tempered commands at Zen. Avon listened a moment; anger burst in him as he realized what Blake was planning.

Leaving! Running away, Blake was abandoning-- abandoning them! I knew it. I was right after all. The bitter irony choked him suddenly. Well, I'm ready for you. You haven't surprised me; I'm a match for you, Blake. His hands were cold again; he clasped them tightly together. Go to hell, Blake.

The Liberator was evidently in orbit around some planet. Blake demanded to know if it was uninhabited; Zen replied only that it was listed as such. Blake poured himself an uncharacteristic drink from a nearly-empty pitcher. "That's good enough," he said shortly.

"Really?" Avon stepped forward, his voice biting. "It sounds a little casual to me."

Blake downed his drink before he answered. "I'm going down on my own, Avon. It has nothing to do with you."

Avon's eyes flashed at this patent lie. Two can play at that game, Blake. "Nothing at all," he agreed deliberately, crossing the flight deck to stand under Zen. "But it occurs to me that if you should get into trouble, one of your followers--one of your three remaining followers--" Chew on that, Blake! "might have to risk his neck to rescue you." Through his anger, his chest hurt dully; he folded his arms tightly across his body.

Blake's voice, part of him was glad to hear, was filled with pain. "You must advise them against that, Avon."

"Oh, I will."

Blake slammed his glass down and turned to face him for the first time. His eyes held a mute appeal, which only shattered against Avon's iron gaze. After a moment the painful resolve crumpled and he broke into motion, heading across the deck toward the door. Bitterly, he said, "They might even listen to you this time."

"Why not?" As Blake brushed past him, close enough to touch, Avon discovered that he did not want to let him go...not that easily. He lashed out with the weapon he knew would pierce Blake's defenses, the weapon Blake had handed him the night before. "After all," he said almost gleefully, "I don't get them killed."

Blake pulled up short, gut-punched. Avon could hear him breathing, smell the soma on his breath. He held himself absolutely still as a hand fell on his shoulder, castigating himself for saying anything. The heat of Blake's hand burned through his jacket and shirt, stinging his skin. "True," whispered Blake into his ear. Avon fought to keep from trembling.

Blake's hand tightened fractionally, and then Zen's smug voice broke the silence and Blake swung away, ignoring the status report to abandon the flight deck to Avon. Unwillingly the dark man watched him go, his eyes fastened to the broad back until clicking bootheels from the other entry demanded his attention. Avon took a deep breath and with a desperate effort crushed his churning stomach, his churning emotions, as Jenna came in, calling uselessly after Blake. When the rebel leader didn't even pause, she gave Avon a questioning glance.

"It's getting worse for him, isn't it?"

Avon crossed to the couch. He almost drew back, remembering, then sat carefully on the very end. For a moment he fancied he could see the imprint of their bodies, his and Blake's, burned into the cushion beside him. He rubbed his cold hands together and forced himself to meet Jenna's eyes.

"Guilt does that," he said shortly.

"What would you know about guilt?" she retorted.

The words lanced through him, but he managed to spread his hands and smile flawlessly. "Only what I've read," he said, while inside something keened, Oh, Anna...alone, left alone... Desperate for a distraction, he took up one of the game pieces scattered on the low table. "Your move, I think?" he said mockingly, and Jenna snorted in disgust and turned away.

He rolled the small token in his hands, nervously playing with it. I knew Blake would do this. Why should it bother me now? He glanced again at the cushion beside him. A tiny stain showed near his thigh, and he flushed and looked away.

Vila came in, chattering nervously. "Blake's set on teleporting down. Won't let any of us go with him--well, I did offer," he added, reflexively defensive in Avon's presence. "He's got Cally operating the teleport, wouldn't even let me stay." He crossed to the main console and flicked a switch. Blake's and Cally's voices sounded, hollowed by the intercom. Avon sat unmoving as they heard Blake decoy Cally out and teleport down. Go to hell, Blake. No doubt I'll see you there. Cally's voice came from the teleport section, cursing under her breath; then she reappeared on the flight deck and Vila shut the intercom off.

Cally only sounded confused as she reported that ORAC had zeroed the teleport coordinates, making it impossible to locate Blake again. Avon pressed his lips together. It fit. But when Jenna cried out that their orbit was shifting, out of her control, he swayed dizzily for a moment. He gripped the little playing piece until its sharp edges cut into his palm. Alone, left alone...

Damn it! He was furious with Blake, with himself, with the others for their stubborn stupidity. Couldn't they see what Blake was doing? He raised his head and met Jenna's eyes. "He could be running out on us," he suggested tiredly.

"Oh, don't be stupid, Avon," Vila protested, too quickly. "Blake wouldn't do that!" Avon didn't bother to answer. Cally did, and the three of them began bickering fearfully. Avon listened with half his mind, occasionally putting in a caustic comment. But his thoughts were far away.

So you've left, Blake. Oh, not for good...I don't believe that, whatever these chattering fools think. You'd never give up this ship, any more than I would. Are you doing this to me just to prove you can? His fists clenched. You can't. Or has your egotistical guilt finally gotten the better of you? You said it yourself: Gan wasn't the first and he won't be the last. Which of these loyalty-blinded fools will be martyred next for St. Blake?

You tried to lure me in, didn't you? Hold me, tie me to you. And then you left without a word. Damn you, Blake. Damn you to hell. He stood abruptly and broke into the conversation.

"What do you think we should do, then?"

Jenna eyed him speculatively. "Suggest something."

Avon put on his best, most seductive smile, crossing to lean intimately over the pilot. You can't even hold Jenna, Blake, and she's in love with you. "Well, now," he murmured. "I find the idea of being wealthy rather appealing." But his fingers still played nervously with the game piece, rolling it from hand to hand.

Vila's shocked "Leave?" annoyed him, and he snapped at the frightened thief. And why not? I give as good as I get. He began to lead the little man into admitting that Blake had abandoned them, that the only thing to do now would be to leave. Vila was absurdly easy to manipulate, until Jenna interrupted angrily. Bitterly disgusted, Avon sat heavily back down on the couch as the argument swirled around him.

Vila began whining about Gan, and Avon paid little attention. But his head snapped up when Vila asked aloud if Blake had left a message, and the main screen cleared to show Blake's haggard face.

For one horrified moment, Avon thought that Vila had triggered a private message to him, that Blake would blurt out some unbearably personal item from the screen. But Blake's first words reassured him; they were, he thought, little more than self-flagellation, more of Blake's revelling in guilt. Like the previous night.

"I must apologize for the somewhat dramatic exit," said Blake in the middle of Avon's thought, and Avon started. Dramatic exit? He almost laughed out loud. It was I who made the dramatic exit, or have you forgotten, he jeered silently. Yours was nothing. You only stood there while I--

While I left. I left.

Avon stood very still.

I left. I walked out on Blake, more decisively than he has done now. Why is he doing this? Revenge?

No. Revenge is not in Blake. Not against--he paused, testing the word--a friend. Yes, Blake would call me his friend.

Then why?

Blake's image talked on, on the screen. Now he was admitting that he had made a mistake in attacking Central Control at all. Avon responded automatically, "I noticed that," reflexively jabbing. But the recorded image couldn't hear, and none of the others noticed except Jenna, who shot him an angry look.

Blake's voice became lower, intimate, personal. The tone was so like that of the previous night that Avon looked up, meeting the image's eyes.

"I don't know anymore," Blake said. "I don't know whether we should go on. Whether you would, even supposing I could ask you to."

Who is that meant for, Blake? Not your crew of tame puppies, here. Are you speaking to me? What game are you playing, Blake?

"So that is what we've got to decide, you and I," said Blake. "Where do we go from here?"

"So, that is what we have got to decide, is it?" echoed Avon, earning another glare from Jenna. He ignored her. Blake was detailing some ridiculously complicated scheme involving a homing beacon. No doubt Vila, at least, would be suitably impressed. As if you could ever run so far I couldn't find you, Blake.

That is what we have got to decide.

If Blake isn't running out, then what is he doing?

Avon clenched his fists as he felt the trembling threaten again. Damn you, Blake. I will not allow you to do this to me.

The message ended and the four of them stood in silence for a moment. Vila was the first to speak. "He really cares about us, doesn't he?" he sighed.

Avon spun on him, furious for no reason he could name. "You swallowed that?" That load of lies, that self-serving garbage...

"You think he was faking it?" asked Jenna.

"Everything but the self-pity," he answered bitterly. "That was real enough." And who do I pity? I don't need anyone's pity. I don't need you, Blake.

"You're wrong," said Cally calmly. Avon stared at her, shocked, until he realized with a start that she was answering his spoken words. A projecting telepath, she couldn't read thoughts. So she said. He turned away from her to challenge Jenna, but the pilot refused to answer and walked away without a word. Anger was written in every muscle of her retreating back.

Feeling terribly alone, Avon whirled to stab an accusing finger at the remaining two. But they only met his eyes, Vila sadly, Cally composedly, and then the tall alien woman took Vila's arm and they followed Jenna off the flight deck.

Truly alone now, Avon looked down at the little playing piece still in his hand, warm with his touch. He felt a sudden, irrational urge to throw it across the room, but stifled it automatically. Instead he sat down on the couch again, closer to where he had been the night before, and returned the little token to the tumbled board. He and Jenna had been playing, the day they had reached Earth.

That is what we have got to decide.

Blake left. Left the ship, left me, without a word. And now he has the arrogance to ask me to take him back, after what he has done.

What has he done?

He seduced me. Remembered arousal pulsed lightly in his groin, and brutal honesty compelled him to add, Not without help, Kerr Avon.

He left me. But I left him first, and threatened to kill him if he followed. Is he only proving that he can hurt back?

Is that what I am doing?

What am I doing? And more importantly, what did I do?

He had avoided remembering the events of the previous night. Now he forced himself to recall them, in clinical, painful detail, and found that some memories were not as painful as he had expected.

It was...comforting to be held. This time he recognized the trembling for what it was, and asked himself bluntly, why does that frighten me?

I am afraid of being abandoned. As everyone abandoned me. As-- as I abandoned Anna.

But I did not abandon Anna. It was beyond my control, and if I could have exchanged places with her, I would have.

And Blake did not abandon me. He let me go when I insisted, and he left when I made it clear that I loathed him. This morning on the flight deck, drunk and afraid, he reached out to me, and I would not look at him.

It had been comforting to be held...and more. He remembered how Blake had moaned into his neck, how he had thrust gladly into Blake's warm mouth. How Blake had clutched him and called his name as he came. He shivered.

I must admit to myself that I enjoyed it. Liked it. That I...want it again.

But admitting it to myself is not enough. Can I admit it to Blake? Can I look him in the eye and say, I want you? Need you?

He laughed sharply. No. But I can tell him he's not getting away from me this easily. Homing beacon, indeed. Detectors don't fail when I'm operating them, Blake.

He stood, mentally designing an orbital search pattern, and moved to the pilot's console. Apprehension, pleasurably tense, coiled in his stomach.