Archive of Our Own ^beta

“You found him?”

Tarrant eyes the man sat on one of the cushy lounge seats across the room, too far away to have noticed them in the dark. “So long as Orac gave us the right photo printout, that should be him.”

This is not the most enjoyable mission they've ever been on. Arms have been moving into this sector of the galaxy, and word on the street is they're on their way to the Federation. It's not clear who is supplying them, but word on the street is a local arms dealer named Adransan is involved, and so they're looking for a way to track his transactions, what he's buying and selling.

In truth, Tarrant isn't sure he sees the point; if the Federation aren't getting their weapons from here they'll be getting them somewhere else, but Avon has his mind set on something and so here they are.

Avon takes a look at the man in the shadows, then finishes his drink in one smooth move. “Right. Well I suppose we'll go talk to him.”

“Avon.”

Avon raises an eyebrow as Tarrant grabs him by the forearm, stopping him from charging in. Oh how the tables have turned. “Is something the matter?”

Tarrant sighs. He thinks Avon is in one of his undiplomatic moods, which isn't ideal for this mission. But saying that isn't particularly diplomatic itself. “You don't think you're a little visible for this, do you?” he asks, which apparently puzzles Avon. “You are one of the most wanted criminals in the galaxy. If he is working for the Federation, you don't worry he'll recognise you?”

“Ah.” Avon concedes the point with a shrug. “That did not occur to you earlier, did it?”

Tarrant huffs, irritated. “I thought it might have occurred to you.”

Avon grins. “Oh, lest I do anything to interfere with your opportunity to show off your skills of observation.” Tarrant rolls his eyes, and Avon carries on. “In any case, what is the alternative you propose?”

“I could approach him on my own.”

That makes Avon squint suspiciously. “Are you any less recogniseable?”

His ego would like to think not, but really, when it comes down to it: “I'm a deserter and a mercenary, those are a credit a dozen. I doubt anyone will have informed him about me specifically.”

Avon still doesn't seem convinced. “You can handle it alone, can you?”

That stings, more than it should. He knows Avon doesn't respect him – at least, doesn't respect him as much as he feels he ought to be respected, and there is very little he can do about that, no matter how hard he tries. “Yes, Avon, I can,” he snaps. “I'm not a child, I don't need you to hold my hand.”

There's a pause. Tarrant wonders if it's about to turn into a fight, if Avon will always refuse him just on principle, but then he raises his eyebrows and brings his teleport bracelet to his mouth. “Vila, beam me up. Apparently Tarrant thinks he can handle this one on his own.”

He smirks as he disappears in a flash of white light, which does not gather as much attention from their fellow patrons as you would expect. They all must be very drunk. Tarrant curses under his breath. Damn, what is he going to do now?

Admittedly he's not entirely sure how he's going to go about this, but the direct approach is probably a good place to start. It's not exactly hard to sidle up to the man, which surprises him. You'd think a well-connected arms dealer would have some level of security, but apparently not.

Adransan does look a little surprised to be approached, raising an eyebrow in Tarrant's direction. “Hello?”

Tarrant decides charm is probably his best way in here. Hopefully he still remembers how. “Hello.” He grins as he outstretches his hand for the man to shake. “You wouldn't happen to be Adransan, would you?”

Adransan grins and leans back after shaking his head, apparently flattered, and not afraid he has a stalker. “Lucky guess,” he says, his own grin rather charming. He's quite a good looking man Tarrant notices, with thick dark hair and warm green eyes, somewhat thin, but with a sense of wiry strength emphasised by the charcoal jumpsuit he wears. “I suppose you've heard of me, then?”

Question is, how far exactly should he push? “I heard you were a business man, powerful and well-connected.” That hints at what he needs without actually revealing anything. He should be able to work from that.

With a chuckle, Adransan puts his drink down. “Well that's true,” he says, but does not give anything else away. “And you would be?”

“Del Tarrant.”

He laughs. “Del Tarrant? Come on, nobody's named Del Tarrant.”

That makes Tarrant chuckle along. Admittedly, there are advantages to having a name so common it sounds like an obvious alias – not least of which is it makes him rather hard to track. “Well, that's just what you'll have to call me.”

“Fair enough.” Adransan is smirking at him, mysteriously, and Tarrant isn't sure he understands why. “So, what do you do?”

Ah. He should have known that question was coming. Valiantly, he tries to think up an answer that isn't too incriminating. “Whatever I can get paid for, I suppose.” That isn't entirely untrue; he still thinks of himself as a mercenary, more or less, even if Avon hasn't paid him since – well, ever.

He doesn't know why he works for Avon, to tell the truth.

“I see.” Adransan looks him over, then quick as a flash, finishes his drink. “Listen, my house isn't far from here,” he says. “Would you like to come home?”

Tarrant blinks. Apparently, the direct approach is in vogue around these parts. He thinks I want sex. Admittedly, he can hardly be blamed for making that assumption under the circumstances, but it's still quite a leap from where Tarrant's mind was at previously.

He takes a moment to consider this proposition. An invite to the man's home is a fairly direct route to the information he's seeking. But what is he willing to do for it?

Tarrant looks Adransan over again. It's not as if he wouldn't consider sleeping with him under other circumstances, free of condition. He's a handsome man, and for a ruthless weapons dealer, quite good company. Admittedly, he usually prefers women, but it's far from an exclusive thing. If his time at the academy taught him anything, it's that it pays not to be too fusy where one's orgasms come from.

He thinks of Avon. The way Avon would sneer if Tarrant told him he couldn't find a way to gain access to their target's accounts. No, he can't have that.

“Alright,” he says. “Why not?”

Tarrant first thinks he might be in over his head when he arrives at Adransan's house and finds another man there, waiting on the couch. “Ah, Del,” says Adransan, not missing a beat. “This is my partner, Timmin.”

Partner. Tarrant wonders what precisely Adransan means by that, if he has misinterpreted the man's intentions, but regardless he politely shakes this Timmis' hand when it is offered him. He is older than Adransan, by a few years anyway, and shorter, with receding hair obviously dyed a bright chestnut colour, and full belly hanging a few inches over his belt. “Pleased to meet you,” Tarrant tells him noncommittally.

“Same.” Tarrant wonders if he is imagining the vague smirk on Timmin's face. Adransan interrupts them before he can ask.

“Would you like a drink?”

Tarrant turns his head and nods. “Thank you.” Regardless of what happens here, he'll probably need it. His gun is still in its holster, thankfully, but hopefully he won't need that. “Whiskey, if you have it.”

Timmin chuckles at that. “A fellow of expensive tastes, I see.”

Tarrant is perhaps a touch offended – he's not exactly been living in luxury for awhile – but smiles nonetheless. “Alpha grade upbringing. I'm afraid it never really leaves you.”

“Of course.” Timmin returns to his seat on the couch, and pats the space next to him. “Sit down, Del.”

Tarrant does so, and Adransan comes to join them, sliding a glass of amber liquid onto the coffee table. It's a bit of a tight squeeze with all three of them there, and Tarrant can feel heat rising up his neck, but he does his best to ignore it. He takes a gulp of his drink, and sure enough it's real whiskey, albeit not from Earth (are they allowed to call non-Earth whiskeys whiskeys again? The rules on that are always changing, not that it matters for a fugitive), but still perfectly pleasant.

While his throat burns Timmin hums approvingly. “He's very beautiful,” he comments, as if he was observing a statue in a museum. “You've done well for us.”

Adransan laughs. “Thank you, dear,” he says, and squeezes Tarrant's leg. Tarrant jumps a little. Alright, he did not misread Adransan's intentions, but he may have underestimated them.

He puts his drink down, hoping to keep ahold of his wits. “One second–”

But before he can finish his sentence Adransan kisses him passionately, possessively. Tarrant gasps in alarm while being all but overpowered, before he thinks to kiss back. It's not as if he didn't know what he was expected to do, even if the circumstances are slightly different than he imagined. While his tongue rubs against Adrasan's Tarrant can feel Timmin's hands unzip his jacket and peel it from his shoulders, but that's alright, he can handle this.

You can handle it alone, can you?

He hisses under his breath, breaking the kiss to do so. Dammit, Avon got him into this situation, he's not going to let him haunt him in it too. “Everything alright?” Adransan asks him.

“Fine,” Tarrant says, but he can't quite bring himself to meet the man's eyes.

Adrasan hums, bemused. “You did know why I was asking you home, right?” He pushes his hand beneath Tarrant's chin, tilting his head up and forcing him to meet his gaze.

Tarrant flushes, embarrassed the man would think him so naïve. “I knew, I just...” his eyes drift, and he looks back over his shoulder to where Timmin is waiting.

Adrasan chuckles. “Ah. Well, Timmin isn't really the bar-hopping type. Can't stand the noise. So he leaves it to me to do the... recruitment.”

“I see.” You're the attractive one, so you convince the young and beautiful to go to bed with you, and don't let on about your partner until they're already there and it's too hard to say no. Tarrant grimaces at the idea, both for the cynicism of it and for the fact he's been lured in, but he doesn't want to let on, lest he not get what he needs.

“Oh, leave the boy alone, Addy,” Timmin says, squeezing his thigh thoroughly. “Listen, if you need some time, take some time. We're not going to force you into anything.”

I'd like to see you try. Tarrant has never let anyone force him into anything, and he doesn't intend to start now. He wonders if he should take this opportunity to leave now, mission be damned. They'll find another way to track where Adrasan's money is going, and how much of a threat he really is.

You can handle it alone, can you?

As ever, Avon's voice at the back of his mind stops him. If he goes back without having accomplished what he meant to... it's not like he owes Avon any explanation as to why he's not willing to let two strangers fuck him just to fulfill one of his paranoid whims, but he can't imagine telling him what they wanted either.

What is he so afraid of, anyway? He's always been reckless, Avon's told him that many times, and sex is a lot less likely to kill him that most of what he dallies with.

Mind made up, Tarrant turns on the charm, flashing his smile for everything it's worth. “No, I'm good.” He winds his hand behind Timmin's neck and pulls him in to kiss, just as forcefully as Adrasan did to him. “Now, I assume you two have a bedroom somewhere?”

Despite his best intentions, he ends up pushed into the bedroom more than he actually walks to it, groped and squeezed all the while. “Get these off,” Timmin mutters against his shoulder, tugging the jacket roughly from him.

Tarrant does his best to hold them at arm's length, for a little while at least. “I'm trying,” he says, acting on instinct to get the clothes off him before they're torn off. It's not easy, with Adransan's hands greedy on his backside. “A little patience would help.”

“Fuck that,” one of them murmurs, he can't tell who, and his trousers are kicked onto the floor, gun cluttering down with it. Tarrant watches it go warily, but they don't seem to notice. “On the bed.”

He is pushed forward again, landing on the bed and flinching at the force of the impact. The two of them stand either side of him, faces obscured by the bright fluorescent lights still on behind their heads. Tarrant thinks he could win a fair fight if he was trying – he's a trained soldier, and they're a couple of rich and spoiled businessmen – but it's hard not feel like a piece of meat, or perhaps a corpse in the morgue.

Just when he thinks he can't go through with this, Avon's voice comes to him again: you can handle it alone, can you? He curses under his breath. He doesn't give a damn what Avon thinks. Really, he doesn't. But he's not going to give Avon the chance to doubt him either.

While he is debating himself, Timmin threads thick fingers through his hair, getting his attention. “Pretty boy,” he says, then pulls. “Open your mouth.”

Why should I? Tarrant wants to snark at him, but doing so requires opening his mouth anyway, and before he gets a word out his mouth is full. The sharp shock of salt and skin in his mouth catches him off-guard, but he quickly closes his eyes and does his best to endure it, Timmin's cock sliding neatly between his lips. It's been... awhile since he did this, he has little experience with other men apart from his adolescent fumblings, but he should know the theory.

“Good boy,” Adransan tells him while Timmin is guiding his head so he can fuck his face harder, taking a firm grip of his cock. “You like that, don't you?”

The adrenalin coursing through his body has given him a sizeable erection, more than enough to convince them he's enjoying what they're doing to him – the thought embarrasses him, but he knows he doesn't want them to think he has ulterior motives. As Adransan wanks him off he starts to moan, uncontrollably, around Timmin's cock. Fuck, it's been too long. His whole body flushes pink, but the pleasure is undeniable. If Avon saw me like this...

The thought makes him flinch again. If Avon saw him like this, it would destroy him. It's not as if he knows what Avon would think – if he would give a damn at all – but he, Tarrant, doesn't think he could bear the humiliation.

Then why am I bearing it now?

Tarrant tries to put the thought out of his mind, which is easy as Timmin's thrusts come faster and rougher, pushing against the back of his throat until he almost chokes. “That's it boy, that's it.” A hand closes around his neck and Tarrant almost panics, but Timmin doesn't squeeze, he just rubs the palm over the bulge in Tarrant's throat, feeling his own cock popping in and out.

His gag reflex flutters around the length and he struggles not to choke, the lack of air only making his cock harder. “That's it,” Adransan tells him, and he lets go of Tarrant's shaft to tease the slit with a thumbnail, finding it wet and leaking. “There's a good boy. Just let him use you.”

Tarrant's spine stiffens. I don't let anyone use me. But in the moment it's hard to argue. Adransan returns to working his length thoroughly, leaving him twitching and keening into the onslaught. Need and shame wash over him again and again, knot in his stomach tightening, leaving him coiled up like a spring.

It takes him by surprise when that spring is sprung, his cock spasming and erupting all over himself without warning. His orgasm feels more like a wound than anything, come splattering over his skin with violent force.

Mind hazy, Tarrant's shame crashes down on him. He was ashamed to find himself here, allowing these people to do these things to him, but to come so quickly, to be so adolescent and green, if Avon saw that...

Face turned blood red, Tarrant pulls himself away from Timmin's stiff cock, coughing to clear his throat of the precome collected in it. “Sorry,” he mutters, uncharacteristically abashed, into his own collarbone. “That doesn't – usually happen.”

Out of the corner of his eye he sees the two of them, sharing a smug grin over his prone body. “That's quite alright,” Adransan says. “Now roll over.”

Tarrant's stomach lurches. They want to fuck me already? Of course, he realised that would probably happen eventually, but he thought he might have a little more time to prepare himself for it.

He takes a deep breath, trying hard not to let his distress show on his face. He can do this. As turns and lies on his belly, Tarrant tells himself this is another sort of courage. He has a mission, after all, and won't let himself forget it, no matter how overwhelming the situation might be. He can endure anything they choose to put him through.

Adransan slides open a drawer and looks for something; Tarrant looks away. He assumes the man is searching for something to make the buggery easier, he doesn't think he needs to know precisely what. Instead he looks straight ahead, at Timmin, who is now kneeling on the mattress in front of him, one hand wrapped around his own cock, still wet with Tarrant's saliva. “You missing this, pretty boy?” he taunts, and Tarrant feels a lump form in his throat. “Don't worry, you'll get another taste soon.”

He gasps when something cold, wet, and plastic starts to rub back and forth down the cleft of his buttocks. “What are you–?” but he cannot finish the question before something small and round pops inside his rim.

Adransan keeps pushing, and a whole series of baubles slide inside him, each one wider than the last. “Good boy,” he murmurs as Tarrant stretches around them, feeling them press deeper than he's ever dared do to himself. “You ever played with toys before?”

No, never, Tarrant almost says, but not wanting to humiliate himself further, he simply bites his lip and braces himself against the bedcovers. Adransan doesn't wait for an answer, pushing the beads in as far as they'll go, and Tarrant can't help but moan and push himself up onto it as he is so deeply penetrated. “Good boy,” Timmin echoes his partner, cock in hand, and Tarrant gasps as Timmin presses it against his cheekbone and draws a pattern with it, something like a loveheart. “You stretch that hole for us.”

His arse opens up around a ball as thick as two of his fingers and he thinks that must be it, he'll be ready now. Indeed Adransan stops pushing in, but instead pushes a button, and Tarrant gasps as a dull, repetitive buzzing suddenly fills him from the inside out, tickling places inside him he didn't know (or want to know) he had.

“There we go.” Work complete, Adransan crawls out from behind him to join Timmin, one arm wrapping around his neck to pull him into a kiss. “Happy anniversary, dear.”

On all fours on the mattress, Tarrant watches the two of them kiss each other and stroke one another's cocks, biting his lip to repress the whimpers the buzzing beads threaten to force out of him with every moment. Avon... “Now,” Adransan pulls away from Timmin's mouth to whisper, “why don't we paint this little slut white?”

Shaking, Tarrant responds as best he can as the two of them start to press their cocks up against his mouth, kissing and licking what he can while his spent cock twitches over the vibrations pushing against his prostate. Neither of them is necessarily that impressive on their own, but the two of them is still a bit too much to handle, especially with his hands pinned against the mattress to maintain his balance. The head of one cock pushes between his lips, and then the other, leaving Tarrant little choice but to dart between the two of them, sucking and releasing, sucking and releasing. The whirring inside him grows unbearable, until it's all he can do to lewdly prop his arse in the air, desperate for an angle that will gain him a little more contact, just a little bit more.

“What a good find,” Timmin kisses Adransan's ear as he whispers. “I'm proud of you.”

They love each other. Tarrant doesn't know why that thought hits him as hard as it does as the two of them share his mouth, why he almost chokes despite neither of them being anywhere near his throat. He can tell they are using him as, essentially, a toy, the same as the one he has buried in his arse. And that's not ideal, obviously, but it's as if he could bear that humiliation much easier if he knew he was doing it for someone who genuinely cared about him, who wouldn't see him debased like this without knowing he could make it better afterwards.

Oh god, Avon, please...

Tarrant can't help himself, with all those reflexes the Federation spent so long drilling into him, he balances himself on one hand so he can take ahold of one of their cocks – Timmin's, he's thicker, Tarrant reckons – and stroke and suck with much more efficiency. If he's doing this he may as well lean into it, worship these cocks like there's nothing he likes better, like he's doing this for his own gratification and nobody else's. He never lets himself be used.

Stroke and suck, stroke and suck. He turns it into a routine, bouncing against the bed as his cock stiffens again against his belly. “Oh, that's good.” Timmin's hand tightens in his curls and pulls him further onto Adransan's cock, making his throat glug before he pulls back and applies his tongue to the prick in his hand. “That's it, such a good job you're doing...”

Despite everything a primal part of him appreciates the compliment, and Tarrant does his best to focus, tongue trailing lewdly up the vein on the underside of Timmin's length. The buzzing in his hole urges him on, but it fades into the background, infusing him with pleasure but not distracting him with it. His nose is all buried beneath Timmin's testes when he's pushed back again, thumb gripping his chin to push his bottom lip down. “Open your mouth wider. Wider.”

Tarrant doesn't know just how wide they think his mouth goes, but he does his best, and he gets an idea of their intentions soon when Adransan wraps one hand around both their cocks, pushing them both into his mouth. Tarrant's eyes go wide, his mouth stings, not even all of the heads fit inside, but nonetheless Timmin throws his head back and groans. “Oh, to hell with this, let's fuck him.”

Being pulled away from overbalances him; Tarrant has to move fast to stop himself collapsing entirely, while Timmin crawls over to the other end. He takes a firm grip of the toy spreading Tarrant open, and Tarrant bites his lip as he pushes it back and forth, baubles sliding out with a slick pop-pop-pop sound. “Yeah, I think he's ready.” The beads are tossed aside, and that's all the warning he gets before Timmin's cock slams all the way into him in one hard, deep thrust.

Tarrant gasps, shocked, tears springing unbidden to his eyes. He takes a deep breath and tries his very hardest to relax, adjust, while Timmin moans at the heat encircling him. While he's trying to acquaint himself, however, he's interrupted by a gentle slap on his cheek. Of course, Adransan. “Mouth. Open.”

Well he can hardly refuse now. He opens his mouth and Adransan pushes right to the back of his throat. Neither of them wastes any time with him, fucking so deep and hard the blows go through Tarrant like a shockwave, shaking hands digging into the bedcovers. He chokes and gags so much he swears he's about to be sick. It's all he can do to make himself go limp, to put up no resistance, let them fuck right through him. It's mortifying, being treated like this, being used, and he can't remember why he's doing it but he can't deny his cock slapping wet and hard against his stomach.

The shame and pleasure and lack of air gets the better of him; tears slip from his eyes as saliva drools down his chin. “Oh fuck, that's good,” Timmin groans as his balls slap against Tarrant's skin with a lewd sound, again and again. “Such a tight little hole.”

“Mm, yeah?” Adransan has two hands in his hair, pulling him down deeper and deeper every time, until he suddenly comes to a stop with his cock poised against his uvula. He must be about to come, Tarrant thinks, and wonders if he can make it happen before he passes out. “Hang on, I have an idea. Get him on his back.”

Adransan pulls away again, leaving him gasping for breath, and he feels weak as Timmin tugs him backwards, until they're both lying atop one another, Timmin's cock still nestled snugly in his ass. That can't be the most comfortable angle for him, but Tarrant can't bring himself to care. He's sure he could fight them, physically, but all the drive to do so seems to have been fucked right out of him.

“There we go. Pretty thing.” He whines in surprise as Adransan suddenly squeezes his hard cock and kisses his bruised mouth. He can't respond or refuse. “We're going to fucking ruin you.”

Don't, he wants to say, but it's too late. Two fingers slide into his sore hole along Timmin's member and he just lets it happen. “Oh god,” Timmin gasps in his ear as Adransan stretches him further, a third finger added to the fray, “that's good, love, but get your dick in here. I want to feel you.”

Generous lover that he is, Adransan does just that, and Tarrant all but screams when he feels a second cock push into his arse. They ignore him. It's too much, he thinks, his own length twitching and leaking against his belly.

He sounds something pathetic, whimpering and whining as he takes their thrusts up his tightly clinging arse. Overwhelmed, he scratches down Adransan's back. That gets a reaction. “Shhh,” Adransan tells him, and squeezes his wet prick once more, “you like it really, don't you?”

Tarrant does not know. His mind is shattered, he know longer remembers where he is or why he's doing it. He closes his eyes and tries to make it all fall away, the shame and the pain of being in such a position, to let the pleasure take over, as if it comes from nowhere. He can feel the two of them holding hands over his left hip. “Oh god, please,” he begs to no-one in particular as their thrusts quake through him, “please, it's too much, I can't, oh god, yes, please, Avon, I need, I did, I – Avon...”

A hand squeezes around him and everything is a bright white light of pure bliss, then darkness.

When he comes to, Tarrant is embarrassed to find himself curled up at the end of the bed, like a lazy cat. He must have passed out. He looks up to see Adransan and Timmin curled up against one another, enjoying the post-coital afterglow. He wouldn't put it past either of them to fuck him while unconscious, but whatever they've done they're finished doing it now. Adransan is the first to notice is stirring. “You're awake, are you?”

Tarrant feels the words like a pale of ice water (an occasional feature of academy life). He is dismissed. In a rush he sits up and starts reaching for his clothing strewn across the floor, doing his best to ignore his soreness and the uncomfortable sticky sensation between his legs. He forgets entirely why he came he in the first place, he just wants to get out as soon as he can, pretend this awful night never happened.

While he's in the middle of grabbing his shirt, however, Adransan reaches out to him. “Wait, here.” Tarrant turns and looks at him outstretch his hand, holding a thick bundle of credit notes.

Tarrant, already sick with shame, blanches. “I'm not a–!”

“Oh no, of course you aren't,” Adransan smirks at him. Tarrant flushes when he remembers the things he said when he first introduced himself: the obviously 'fake' name, the fact he did 'whatever got him paid'. Adransan obviously made an assumption about his profession from the beginning. Why didn't he realise that? “Think of it as money to get home, or just not to talk about it. Whatever you need to tell yourself.”

Tarrant is tempted to punch him on the nose and storm out, before he remembers why he did come. They need to track Adransan's financial dealings. Tarrant never really figured out how he was going to do that, but – all credit notes have a microchip in them, and no-one apart from the Federation's official banking computers is meant to be able to scan those, but of course Orac would find it child's play. Adransan doesn't know it, but he's just handed Tarrant exactly what he needs. Almost makes it all worth it.

Reluctantly, Tarrant takes the money, then continues getting dressed. When he thinks he's cleaned himself up enough, he stands, and that is when Timmin pipes up: “Out of curiosity, who is Avon?”

Tarrant freezes. For a second, he thinks he's been caught out, before he remembers – what he said before he came. Then he burns. The money feels thick and cloying in his palm. He did this because he had to, because he had a mission, not because... it was Avon's idea, but that doesn't mean...

“Nobody important,” he says.

He walks out, and beams back up to Scorpio as soon as he can get away with it.

“So, robbed them blind, did you? I'm impressed.”

Tarrant wasn't sure how he was going to explain the money to the others, so he's grateful for Vila giving him a decent excuse. “Coming from the expert, that's quite the compliment,” he grins. “It's not really all that much,” which makes him even more embarrassed, now he thinks about it, “but it should be enough for Orac to get into his accounts, right?”

Avon, nonplussed, turns the notes over one another in his hand. “Indeed.” Clearly, he wasn't expecting Tarrant to actually succeed in his task. Tarrant tries to seem as smug about that as Avon would expect him to be. Of course if Avon knew what happened he would have considerably less reason to expect Tarrant to be proud, but Tarrant would rather die than share that information.

Soolin raises her eyebrows. “Well, should we get on with it?” Without asking she takes the cash from Avon's palm, leaving him looking rather put out, and walks out to find Orac. Vila and Dayna follow her, leaving Tarrant and Avon alone together. Damn.

Avon is looking at him, examining him like he would one of his computer circuits, those dark brown eyes boring into him. Tarrant can stand it, not right now, so doing his best not to flinch he gets up to follow the others.

“Tarrant.”

He stops. Avon stays in his seat, frowning at him. “I admit, I didn't expect you to accomplish this so quickly,” he says. “I though we'd have to come rescue you from whatever situation you got yourself into this time.”

Tarrant hopes Avon doesn't notice his wince. It's not as if he could have asked for Avon's help if he wanted to – if he told Avon I thought I could seduce my way to what we needed, and got in over my head, he doubts he would receive much sympathy.

He laughs it off, keeps up a brave face. “You're not trying to compliment me, are you Avon?”

Avon gives him a small smile. “Of course not,” he says. “Still: you have your uses.”

Tarrant steps back as if scalded. He knows Avon is just kidding, in his own way, but still–

“I don't let anyone use me.”

Avon just stares at him, bewildered. Tarrant swallows the irrational anger brewing in his gut. It's not – he didn't do this for Avon, obviously. He didn't do it for him, but he blames him for it anyway.

He walks away. If he's going to be used, he should at least have the self-respect to let himself be used by someone who is using him on purpose.