Tarrant dropped Scorpio out of time distort a few hundred spacials short of Fargone's sun, keeping te transition from FTL to sublight as smooth as possible, considering the state of the ship's systems.

He had reason. If he woke the man sleeping in the aft bunk, then he might well be forced to converse with him. After a solid week of Avon's company, sans the leavening influence of the rest of the crew, he thought he could be excused for wanting to forgo any more of it than strictly necessary.

Steering toward the fourth planet in the system, Tarrant began the series of navigational checks, scowling wearily at the figures. Five days out of Laryn, and they still had three days ahead before reaching Xenon. With only failure to report when they reached the end of the journey.

And, if past experience were any guide, Avon would have Scorpio out again within days, on another mission of diplomacy--Tarrant grimaced at applying that word to his companion--that would only sour Avon's temper further. Well, Soolin or Vila or Dayna could tag along for the next trip out. For himself, he felt a bit of peace and rest would be in order. Preferably far away from Avon, for whom the concepts appeared to be foreign.

Feeling restless, Tarrant rose from his station and paced toward the stern, stretching his cramped muscles and trying to rub the grit out of his eyes. Five more minutes in sublight, to finish the checks, and then he could...

Abruptly, the deck tilted at a near seventy-degree angle, sending Tarrant stumbling a few steps toward the front of the flight deck before Scorpio shifted in the opposite direction. What the hell? The artificial gravity field flickered, caught, flickered, then finally died altogether, sending Tarrant clutching for the nearest console.

"What's happened?" Avon's voice rose sharply behind him, slightly groggy with sleep.

Tarrant glanced at the panel nearest him and found it dead, the usual phosphor readouts only a scramble of glowing figures. Was it just the readout itself or were computer systems failing? If the continued lurching of the ship were an indication, probably the latter. "I'm not sure yet. Stay where you are." He started pulling himself, hand over hand, toward the pilot's station. Getting around in zero gee could be tricky and he doubted Avon had done the drills.

Halfway there, the flight deck went black, and with a chilling little whine, the air circulation system shut down. It was a sound that immediately sent a cold shock through any spacer's guts. Remember, if you panic, you're dead. That's the first rule of surviving a systems breakdown. His instructor had always followed that with, of course, you might be dead, anyway.

"Tarrant?" Avon's voice sounded, as ever, cool and detached. Tarrant suddenly decided he was glad to have his least congenial shipmate with him. Whatever else happened, at least Avon would not panic. And if anyone could get computer systems up again, it would be the two of them, with their complementary areas of expertise. It was the kind of situation where neither gunfighting nor stealing would be terribly helpful; only their particular skills would do.

"I'm going toward my console." Tarrant carefully took stock of his bearings before pushing off again. In the total blackness of the flight deck, it would be easy to get turned around, and they had no time for him to be bumping into the bulkheads. "I don't suppose you'd gotten the auxiliary systems connected while I wasn't looking?" After the Mueller's robot business, they'd begun working on that, but Scorpio's antique systems had defied their efforts to tie the backups into the circuits.

"Unfortunately not. But I did put a torch under each of our consoles."

"That helps." Tarrant drifted over what seemed too wide a space before finally grabbing hold of a chair. If his sense of direction weren't completely off, that would be Avon's station. Using the seat as a lever, he pushed himself to what he hoped was his own station, and fumbled to open the latched cabinet under the console, sorting through the floating objects there by touch. A stylus, a leftover half-sandwich, some unidentified tool, then a long, smooth cylindrical shape.

He pushed the switch on the side, and a faint point of light pierced the heavy blackness around him. "Avon, do you think you can manage to get over here? Be careful. Don't try to go too fast or you could end up halfway across the flight deck." He started to ask if Avon were liable to space sickness, but there was no point. If so, they'd both just have to live with the results.

If they lived long enough to worry about it.

With the air circulator and Slave dead, the silence of the flight deck seemed total, and Avon's irregular progress toward him very loud. It took a few minutes before Avon, with uncharacteristic awkwardness, pulled himself into the small halo of light from the torch, his hair still mussed with sleep. He ducked under his own console, coming up with a second torch. "Any ideas what happened?"

Tarrant shone his torch on the panels in front of him. Every one showed either nonsensical readouts or none at all. "We're close to Fargone's sun," he said evenly. "I was doing a navigation adjustment, using Fargone as a reference point."

"A magnetic storm?" Avon's hands roamed over his own console, flicking a control here and there. From Tarrant's position, he could see Avon's readouts made no more sense than his own. "Very likely."

Solar flares could play hell with computer systems by triggering phantom commands, but only on older ships, before the manufacturers had conquered that glitch. Older ships like Scorpio. Like the auxiliary life support tie-in, it had defied his and Avon's effort to fix it, at least without tearing out half the systems, and replacing it with new. This particular phantom command had apparently induced Scorpio to wipe its own computer systems, which had in turn shut down stabilizers, life support, navigation...virtually everything except the drives.

Avon's hands were flicking over his controls again, but unless he went beyond computer expert to being computer god and actually raising the dead, there wasn't much he could do. The programs had been wiped, and no sleight-of-hand would bring them back. Finally, Avon leaned back and glanced over at him. "Suggestions?"

They had plenty of air, but without the circulation systems running, it wouldn't do them much good. Perhaps a few hours.

"Fargone is in range," he said carefully. "If I put the systems on manual, we could probably get Scorpio down." He didn't mention what an unpleasant and possibly fatal ride it could be, without any navigational coordinates whatsoever and flying practically blind. He hesitated another moment, then repeated the qualifier in the interests of complete truth in advertising. "Probably."

"You are always telling us what a fine pilot you are, Tarrant. I suppose it is time you proved it." Tarrant closed his eyes for a long moment, wondering if Avon had just pronounced their death sentence. "Has anyone ever told you, Avon...." He opened his eyes again and carefully reached for the controls that would put Scorpio under his control. "...How very unpleasant you are when your survival has been threatened?"

"Often." Out of the corner of his eye, Tarrant could see the edge of a sardonic twitch of Avon's lips. "But I never mind hearing it again."

*

"How long until we reach atmosphere?"

Tarrant's gaze flickered to the chronometer he'd propped against one of the useless monitors on his console. "Ten minutes exactly."

Avon nodded briefly, returning to the calculations he was hurriedly jotting on scraps of paper found jammed under his console. The notations looked as precise and neat as if Avon were sitting safely in the crew room on Xenon Base. Only the fine sheen of perspiration on his forehead and above his upper lip belied his apparent calm.

Tarrant felt a faint prickle of sweat, as well, despite the increasing chill of the flight deck. He'd done unaided landings before, using simulations at FSA...in fact, he'd gotten the highest marks in his class in that area, by far. He'd enjoyed the challenge.

But, even so, he'd gotten the simulated crafts down intact only sixty percent of the time. Even among far more experienced pilots, that figure had been considered to be exemplary. Most destroyed their crafts in eighty percent of the touchdowns.

Tarrant decided not to share that statistic with Avon. He felt nervous enough for both of them.

"Five minutes." He moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue, which felt dry as well. A ragged slip of paper slid into his field of vision and he glanced down at the figures. "Compensating." He adjusted the controls using the only gross landmark he could: the planet growing ever larger in the viewscreen. Compared to what he was doing now, old-fashioned celestial navigation would be considered precise.

"Thirty seconds."

Scorpio hit Fargone's atmosphere with all the grace of an elephant doing a bellyflop in shallow water. If he hadn't strapped in earlier, he would've been tossed halfway across the deck. From the corner of his field of vision, he could see Avon clinging to the edge of his own console, teeth slightly bared with the effort to stay upright.

"We're still alive," Tarrant commented. The controls tried to wrench themselves out of his hands; he pulled straight back on them, attempting to keep Scorpio on some semblance of a level course toward the planet.

"Good. Try to keep us in that happy condition."

As they neared the planet, Tarrant lost the first landmark he'd selected to navigate by, the upper rim of Fargone. Glancing at the figures Avon had provided, he selected another landmark he thought he could use: a peninsula jutting from the edge of the northernmost continent. "Avon, where do you project that we'll land?"

Avon's voice, a bit breathless from the jolting about, nonetheless held a note of mockery. "Somewhere in northern hemisphere."

Despite his sheer terror, Tarrant felt the shadow of his usual grin briefly pass over his face. "I've never known you to be so imprecise, Avon."

"My apologies. Even I have off days."

Then all thought of conversation died as Scorpio reached the inner layer of atmosphere. Without the stabilizers, Scorpio had all the grace and style of Vila on a three-day drunk, and Tarrant could barely keep the ship on any sort of course. The targeted continent seemed to rush upward at a terrifying pace. Tarrant lost, then acquired new landmarks to navigate by.

"Will we be able to level out to land?"

Tarrant had never known Avon to ask a rhetorical question before, either. Since he didn't think the reply "I haven't any idea" would have brought any great reassurance to his companion, he said nothing at all, putting all his concentration into keeping Scorpio from an outright nosedive.

The vague topography under them became more distinct, dapples of green resolving themselves into forests and roads and, incredibly, a long stretch of smooth field that beckoned to him like the gates of some fabled paradise. He pulled back on the controls, willing Scorpio's prow to come up.

Damnit, damnit, damnit.

Sluggishly, Scorpio began to respond to his urging, skimming just over the surface of the ground at a demented tilt, but just level enough to avoid a crash. Just a bit more. Just a bit more. Come on...

Then the underside of the ship came down with a thump that rattled Scorpio's hull and sent Avon's forehead thudding against the console, before the restraints snapped him back into his seat again. A moment later, the ship bounced up from the ground, hurtled forward twenty meters, then thumped down once more, sliding forward and plowing through a hectare of unripened grain.

Within a few minutes that seemed much longer, Scorpio slid to a halt, every centimeter of the metallic hull still seeming to tremble from the impact.

Down. Safe. Tarrant took one breath, then another. About ten heartbeats later, he lifted his hands from the controls. As from a distance, he watched himself place them flat against the console, trying to still their trembling. I can't believe we're alive.

Slowly, Avon released himself from his restraints, rubbing gingerly at his forehead. "Nice landing." For once, he sounded sincere, not sarcastic, despite a turn of phrase that made Tarrant want to break out into hysterical laughter. "Do you have any idea where we are?"

Tarrant turned his head to regard his companion. He spoke slowly and carefully. Now that he had his hands under control, he didn't want his voice to give him away.

"Somewhere," he said, "in the northern hemisphere."

"You see?" Avon gave him a smug half-smile. He looked as pale as Tarrant felt. "Just as I told you."

*

Tarrant completed his inspection of Scorpio's exterior and, with difficulty, managed to squeeze his long frame back through the partially-jammed hatch. His report was guaranteed not to brighten Avon's day. While Scorpio would indeed fly again, a fairly impressive list of repairs needed to be carried out before they could even consider lifting off for Xenon Base.

Seat-of-the-pants repairs wouldn't do the trick, not if they intended to subject Scorpio to the stress of time distort speeds. And twenty years alone with Avon in a tiny spacecraft was more than Tarrant could contemplate with any equanimity, so time distort would be required.

On the flight deck, he found Avon sitting back on his heels at the base of Slave's platform, a scattering of tools at his feet.

Tarrant looked down at the open access hatch. "Any progress?"

"I've persuaded Slave to talk to me. The problem is, it's saying nothing a sensible person would care to hear." He leaned forward, picking up tools and returning them to the small case he kept under his console. "You were right; the flare tripped a command that caused every system to wipe totally."

"But you could reprogram the systems, surely?"

"I'm flattered by your high opinion of my talents. But if I did the reprogramming myself, it could take months. To paraphrase Vila, buying the programs is easier."

"Using what? The account you set up for us on Laryn isn't going to do us much good here. We're not even in the same sector."

Avon rose gracefully from the deck, flexing his shoulders absently and tilting his head back to work the kinks out of his neck. "I imagine we might have something useful on hand." He strolled toward the rear of the flight deck.

"I don't think this quite the time for a nap, Avon." His sarcasm didn't hold quite the same edge it would've even a year ago, he noted. Perhaps advancing age had mellowed him, even if passing time hadn't produced any such improvement in his companion.

"No?" Avon perched on the edge of the bunk, reaching across the mattress to tuck his hand under the far edge, pressing down on the point where the coverlet met the bulkhead. A moment later, he pulled out a black chamois bag that, from the way he held it, weighed a lot for its size.

"No wonder you have such sweet dreams." Tarrant followed Avon to the front of the flight deck, to the flat counter running in front of the consoles. "What is it, pirate's treasure?"

"Something like that. Part of the unfortunately modest inheritance that Dorian left behind." Turning the bag upside down, he spilled out a quantity of cotton padding, then a jumbled assortment of items that could be used as negotiable currency, depending on the system: the gold coins from Syria Major that circulated freely on most non-Federated worlds, several dozen industrial-grade diamonds, a block of platinum, the ever-more-rare tyrium gems used for long-range communications, even a thick roll of the banknotes used on the more primitive Federation worlds. "I like to think ahead."

Tarrant grinned at the understatement. "This time, I won't complain."

"Just don't tell Vila or I'll have to find a new hiding place."

Tarrant solemnly drew an imaginary cross over his heart. "Now that we have these riches, finding a repair shop seems in order."

"That might present a problem." Avon leaned back against the console, idly poking a finger through the small pile of diamonds. "If we had Orac we could call up all the information we needed: find out where we are, the location of the nearest repair facility, the name of the owner, the brand of parts he stocks...."

"...And have him out here within the hour. Unfortunately, Orac is on Xenon Base and Scorpio's communications system is one of the casualties of the magnetic storm. Inconvenient, isn't it?" Tarrant hauled himself up to sit on top of one of the dead consoles, kicking his legs thoughtfully against the metal sides. "So, has your much-admired intellect come up with any solutions to the dilemma?"

Avon inclined his head as if acknowledging a compliment. "Perhaps. I have been in contact with some of Fargone's leadership, attempting to interest them in our Alliance. It's an agricultural planet that is apparently governed by a loose oligarchy of wealthy landowners...one in particular has become quite interested."

"So you know at least one person here?"

The corner of Avon's lips lifted sardonically. "Yes. But there may be a slight problem. He lives in the southern hemisphere."

"Ah. How convenient."

"Quite." Leaning back, Avon flipped one of the few switches at Dayna's usual station which still functioned, operating the viewscreen. The screen came to reluctant life, revealing two flyers cutting across the fields toward Scorpio at a smart pace. "But perhaps these people know my contact."

Tarrant slid off the console, starring at the screen. "How did you..."

"As I said, Fargone is an agricultural planet. By my estimate, Scorpio plowed under approximately two point five hectares of prime wheat from imported Earth seeds." He began gathering up the scattered currency and dropping it hurriedly into the bag. "Sooner or later, someone was bound to notice."

He looked up again, not quite smiling, holding a handful of gold coins. "I don't suppose you know the current price of wheat on Earth?"

*

The five men who emerged from the flyers looked more like successful cartel executives than farmers. Or perhaps, more accurately, one cartel chairman and his four lower-level, but still important, minions.

Avon spoke quietly as the men approached, his lips barely moving. "Apparently, you landed Scorpio on one of the larger corporate-owned plantations."

"Is that good or bad?" Tarrant didn't want to keep his hand too close to his clipgun, lest it be taken as a threatening gesture, but his fingers fairly itched to clasp metal.

Avon's shoulders lifted in the smallest of shrugs. "Since the owners came themselves rather than sending several large guards to reduce us into pulp, I expect it might be considered good." He tilted his head toward the flyers. "However, you'll notice that there are indeed guards, kept almost discreetly out of sight."

Tarrant had noticed that, thus the longing for flesh against gunmetal. With difficulty, he turned his attention from the lurking guards to the delegation approaching the ship.

They ranged in age from about forty, Tarrant judged, to some twenty years older than that. All seemed expensively dressed in variations of the Federation business garb popular about a decade before: A dark, close-fitting bodysuit, topped by variously-colored jackets, open at the front and ending just above the pelvis. Tarrant had always supposed the reason the suits had dropped out of favor in Earth society was that they clearly displayed any defects of the wearer's physique. Several of the men in the group demonstrated that principle to a painful extent.

Self-consciously, Tarrant sucked in his practically non-existent stomach.

The men came within speaking distance, and Avon nodded to them with a sort of regal courtesy, like a king greeting the potentate of a neighboring, but somewhat inferior, province.

The one Tarrant had pegged as the highest-ranked halted a few meters from them and nodded in turn. He appeared to be just at the half-century mark in age, but trim and still powerful in build, with close-cropped platinum-blond hair and fierce, intelligent eyes as blue as Tarrant's own. "Kerr Avon?"

Without changing expression or stance, Avon abruptly radiated a nimbus of danger so palpable that even Tarrant had to fight the urge to take a step backward. "Pity. I'd intended this to be a surprise visit."

The man started to put out a placating hand, then seemed to think better of the idea. "Scorpio is well-known to the Federation," he agreed, "and worth quite a tidy sum of credits. But I'm in the business of harvesting wheat, not people."

"How fortunate for us." If Avon's personal force field lessened in intensity, it was by an increment too small to actually measure.

"I had a scan done of your ship after you...um, landed? I identified it--true, using the Federation bulletins--but then contacted a colleague, Grav Enderor. He told me you were a possible...shall we say, ally?"

Avon's contact. Tarrant let go a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

Some of the tension eased from Avon's shoulders, as well. "Yes, I have been in touch with Enderor on several occasions. And your name is..?"

"Lieesb Rowan." He held out a hand that looked as powerfully-built as the rest of him. To Tarrant's relief, Avon did not stare at it incredulously, but shook it like any other civilized person would do.

Avon tilted his head in Tarrant's direction. "My pilot and associate, Del Tarrant."

Tarrant contented himself with a brief nod and a dazzling smile. The second line troops hadn't offered to shake hands, and he supposed himself to fall in that category.

Rowan glanced at him for what appeared to be the first time, and the platinum eyebrows rose. "He looks very young."

Avon didn't even glance at Tarrant. "Looks tend to be deceiving."

The other man smiled. "True enough." He nodded over Avon's shoulder at the shattered Scorpio. "For example, your ship looks thoroughly unflyable."

"Ah." Avon's face relaxed into a not-quite-smile. "I should add that the rule is not infallible. As in this case. I don't suppose you have a repair shop to hand?"

"As a matter of fact, I do have a small facility that works on the freighters we use for shipping grain. But if there's anything very elaborate that needs done, we may have to send out for parts. What's the damage?"

Avon turned his head slightly. "Tarrant?"

"Two smashed stabilizers that will have to be replaced. And a couple of hull breaches--those can be patched, I think. Then all the flight computers need reprogramming. Along with replacement star maps and navigational coordinates. That should do it, until we can get back to base."

Rowan glanced back at one of his minions, who hurried over to whisper in his ear. After a moment, he nodded. "The hull patches can be done at once, but the stabilizers and the software will have to be special ordered."

"We do have sufficient currency to--"

The other man waved away Avon's half-finished sentence. "I'm hoping we might come to be allies. I personally have no desire to pay Federation taxes, which would seem to be in Fargone's future otherwise."

Avon inclined his head in acknowledgement. "An understandable motivation."

"It'll take a few days, perhaps a week, to get the parts and make all the repairs. If you and your associate would consent to be my guests, I would be pleased. And I'm certain we could spend the time profitably, discussing a possible alliance."

Avon hesitated only a moment. No doubt the same thoughts were going through his mind as Tarrant's own: If Rowan were going to betray them to the Federation, there was no reason not to shoot them or take them at gunpoint right now. Very likely they were safe. It wasn't cause for trust, precisely, but it seemed close enough to dance to. Especially under the circumstances.

"Thank you," said Avon, and prepared to follow Rowan to the flyer.

With a last look at his battered ship, Tarrant followed. He wouldn't mind a few days rest, away from base...if not, unfortunately, away from Avon.

*

Avon prowled the boundaries of their assigned room like a caged panther searching for a hidden cache of fresh meat.

Will you please sit down? Tarrant willed silently. Before you drive me out of what's left of my mind. What ailed the man, anyway? Here was the perfect chance to get a bit of peace and quiet, and all Avon did was pace. Unlike him, who...

Tarrant looked down as his half-clenched hands, at his long body perched on the edge of the easy chair, stiff with tension. Hmm. He had to admit that perhaps relaxing sounded easier than it was actually proving to be.

On Xenon, it seemed there was always an urgent task that needed attention, from Scorpio's perpetually cranky systems to the mundane chore of making certain the group had sufficient to eat. All this jammed between the increas-ingly-frantic push to find some method, any method, of keeping the Federation at bay, or at least delaying their inexorable drive to recover the outer systems. It left none of them time to rest or to think.

Truth was, Tarrant realized belatedly, none of them wanted time to think.

Too many losses, too many failures, made introspection a painful activity. Too many friend, lovers, parents, siblings--Tarrant flinched at that last--had been sacrificed in their fight against and flight from the Federation. Most recent and most painfully, Cally--and that a crewmate could be closer than a lover in many ways, Tarrant had already known. And Liberator, for so long their only home.

Too much loss to bear dwelling upon. And too much fear of more loss to come.

Tarrant found himself on his feet, ready to flee the direction his thoughts had taken, and forced himself with difficulty into the cushioned armchair again. Yes, he understood Avon's restlessness quite well, but if he emulated it, he and Avon would end up butting heads in more than one sense.

Deliberately, he relaxed, tilting his head against the winged back of the upholstered chair. Avon had come to a momentary halt in front of the windows that ran across one entire wall, stretching from floor to ceiling. "Anything interesting?" Tarrant asked.

"Hmm?" The other man's shoulders twitched, an aborted gesture of what would have signaled startlement in another. He'd been a thousand spacials away, obviously; even perpetual motion was no certain guarantee of distraction.

"The view. With windows like that, I'd expect a spectacular view."

"Oh." Avon tilted his head, as if seeing the outside world for the first time. "Only if you're transfixed by the sight of stalks of wheat. Areas suitable for agricultural use tend to be flat and boring to the average person."

True. On the way in to the sprawling central complex, Tarrant had seen nothing but stretches of planted or plowed fields, occasionally broken by a ditch or fence, with the only moving object other than their flyers the odd automatic reaper. "Perhaps it's scenic to other farmers."

"Probably," Avon agreed absently. "Or at least they like to look at the income it represents."

Avon prowled onward. The room was huge--rather like a suite without any walled divisions--and furnished with what had been, again, the height of Federation fashion a few years before, mingled with objects which Tarrant assumed represented more local tastes. One of the older colonies, Fargone had been out of the Federation cultural mainstream for many years, according to the brief historical precis provided by Rowan. It would be interesting to see what differences showed up in the way of manners and mores.

Back in the Federation fleet, he'd have had a cultural briefing prior to arriving on Fargone. Among rebels and renegades, he'd become accustomed to winging it, but had that had led to some--so far--humorous mistakes.

He had to wonder if he'd eventually run into a situation that wouldn't be such a joke. Orac helped in that area on most occasions, but not even the supercomputer had data for every occasion. And he was certainly of no help now, incommunicado on Xenon Base.

"Tarrant, what do you make of this?"

Levering himself out of the deep armchair, Tarrant crossed the room to join Avon at what Tarrant had mentally dubbed the "master bed," as opposed to the rather less expansive model tucked into an alcove near the loo. The latter, he suspected was intended for the associate-cum-minion, himself. Unfair, that, since Tarrant was clearly the taller and the bed clearly the shorter of the two. But he knew damned well who'd end up there.

Avon pointed to an arrangement of metal parts above the headboard that Tarrant had taken for a piece of abstract art or perhaps a particularly convoluted form of reading lamp. It wasn't.

"It looks like a surveillance device," Tarrant said cautiously.

"Yes. That's what I thought. But why is it just there?"

Tarrant followed the line of sight of the main lens...to the bed. A fairly wide lens, it would just take in the entire surface. "Ah, Avon..."

"That's what I thought."

They exchanged glances, eyebrows raised in a mirror image of one another.

Avon returned his gaze to the camera arrangement. "Unless they send someone to seduce the location of Xenon Base from us, I doubt we should worry." His lips curved upward. "No offense, Tarrant, but I have no intentions of whispering rebel secrets in your ear."

"No offense taken," Tarrant assured him. He examined the arrangement again. "Besides, this wasn't put in for our benefit...it's been in place for some time."

"You're right." Avon delicately rotated the lens, as if to adjust the focus. "Besides which, if they intended to spy upon us, I trust they'd be a trifle more subtle about it."

"There's that," Tarrant agreed. "Still, I can't help wonder what it could possibly be used for... I mean..." His mind raced over a score of possibilities, each more obscene than the last. But, really, for all he knew it might've been used to monitor an invalid who'd used this room. Probably someone long dead.

Yes, that was surely the answer. But he gave the equipment another doubtful glance.

"Just don't bring up the question at the dinner table," Avon advised him. "It might be an awkward subject."

"I'll try not to commit a faux pas over the fish course," he assured Avon sardonically.

"Yes, you might as well wait for dessert. Speaking of that..." Avon tilted his head toward the bathroom, furnished with a marble tub that even Tarrant could've swam in. "Shall I get cleaned up for dinner first or shall you?"

Remembering a bit of crew gossip from before he left, Tarrant grinned. "Surely you jest. Soolin told me that when you two visited Lysator, she didn't even get to wash her hair, you spent so much time in the bath. I'm first."

For a moment, Avon seemed taken aback. Tarrant suddenly realized that no one, after Terminal, bothered to tease Avon, or dared try to pierce the invisible repulse field that surrounded him. Avon stared at him a few seconds longer still, then his face relaxed slightly. "A gross libel," he said softly, "but as you are so eager..." He made an expansive gesture toward the bath. "You have fifteen minutes for your ablutions."

"Fifteen minutes? But we have well over an hour until..."

The ghost of a smile on Avon's lips halted him mid-sentence. Tarrant laughed.

"All right, Avon. You win. Fifteen minutes, then you can splash to your heart's content."

*

At the dinner table, Tarrant noted that the few moments Avon had relaxed in their quarters upstairs had been but a brief respite, soon over and forgotten. Every tilt of Avon's head, every elegant gesture, every cryptic, terse sentence spoke to Tarrant of the tension that had become a spectral companion to the life they'd been forced to lead since he met Avon above Sarran.

Tarrant himself felt the strain, but in this different setting, he recognized it more clearly in Avon, who looked remarkably like a candidate for the leading role in an advertisement for tranquilizing drugs. In the initial segment, before the happy consumer found for himself the virtues of TranqEase or HappyDaze. But at least the fish course had indeed passed without a faux pas, from Tarrant or anyone else.

Though, truthfully, Tarrant wasn't positive there had been a fish course. But the white slivers of meat-like substance in a spicy red sauce could well have been fish and had indeed appeared at the proper point in the culinary lineup.

All the food, Tarrant noted, tasted incredible. At least, to someone accustomed to the food preparation skills displayed by one thief, two weaponry experts, and a computer specialist. Not to mention himself, unanimously acclaimed by the rest as the worst cook in seven star systems.

So he might as well take advantage of decent food when he could. After all, as Dayna often told him, he was a growing lad, and there appeared to be little he could add to the low-voiced conversation between Avon and Rowan.

Unobtrusively, Tarrant induced one of the hovering servants to dispense more of a dish that involved pasta, a strongly-flavored meat, and an unidentifiable but intriguing group of spices. The servant was young and male, as were all the staff Tarrant had noticed. The ten or so people seated around the table were also male, but all older. He wondered if women were kept in some form of purdah here or if the male/female ratios had somehow become unbalanced. Not an unheard-of situation.

Rowan had apparently concluded his conversation with Avon. Now, he looked around and raised his voice slightly, as if including the rest of the table in a less sensitive conversational gambit.

"Though it obviously wasn't deliberate, Avon, you did arrive at a fortuitous moment. Two days from now is my fiftieth birthday. Achieving fifty is the second of two significant natal days in a man's life, and we're planning a rather extensive celebration." Rowan touched the rim of his glass, and a servant hurried over to refill it with amber-colored wine. "I suspect several of those attending are men you'll be interested in meeting.

Avon shook his head slightly as the servant attempted to refill his half-empty glass. "We'll be delighted." He looked more like a man making a valiant attempt to appear delighted, and who'd actually rather walk through burning embers barefoot. The social requirements of diplomacy tried Avon's patience, which was in short stock to begin with.

Tarrant decided a distraction might be in order. "What is the first significant birthday?"

Rowan seemed surprised that Tarrant needed to ask. "The twenty-fifth."

"Really?" At least he could carry the small talk a little further and give Avon the chance to fake eagerness a bit more convincingly. I'm due to have my twenty-fifth birthday in..." Tarrant frowned in concentration; it was easy to lose track of standard time, shuttling back and fourth between star systems. "...Ah, yes, exactly three months."

He'd opened his mouth again to ask about the significance of the birthday, when he noticed everyone in the room had frozen in place, even the servants. Avon's sharp kick to the ankle wasn't needed to alert him to trouble. He'd become the cynosure of all eyes and clearly not because of his good looks.

For a few moments, the tableau remained in absolute stillness, the only sound the stressed breathing of the room's inhabitants and the soft purr of a automatic reaper in the far distance.

Then Rowan began speaking again, talking brightly and much too quickly about preparations for the upcoming festivities, merely confirming Tarrant's deduction that he'd said something very wrong indeed. The rest of the meal seemed to stretch on forever and the subsequent courses tasted like dust to Tarrant's suddenly dead palate.

Rising from the table after what seemed be an eternal dessert, Rowan invited Avon to join him in his study, pointedly not including Tarrant in the summons. But he managed to slip unobtrusively into the hall just as the two men went through the third door down from the dining room. Rapidly, Tarrant ducked into the fourth door down, a room that looked as if it would share a wall with the study.

Avon would doubtless give him the bad news presently, in scathing and uncomplimentary detail, but he found himself unwilling to wait for the results in impatient ignorance.

Glancing around, Tarrant saw a promising connecting door for passing through refreshments, one panel conveniently ajar. He put an eye to the narrow opening and strained to hear the two men's voices.

What the hell could he possibly have said?

*

Rowan paced the elegant parquet floor of the study, crossing and recrossing Tarrant's narrow field of vision, hands clenched tightly behind his back. From his agitation, it was obvious that whatever taboo he'd inadvertently tripped over had to be major.

I hope you can talk our way out of this one, Avon.

In contrast, Avon stood quietly beside the desk that dominated the room, no emotion save cool interest evident in his expression. After several moments passed without any cessation of Rowan's movements, he said mildly, "Perhaps if you told me the problem."

Rowan halted, and after a momentary hesitation, circled the desk and sat down. He folded his hands in front of him on the desk top and, even at this distance, Tarrant could see that his knuckles were white from the convulsive clenching of his fists. "You told me that Tarrant was your associate."

"That's correct."

"But he's not--a man." Rowan blurted out the statement in an embarrassed rush, with an odd sort of emphasis, not as if he were talking about age or gender, but as if separating animals from sentient species.

"Perhaps you had better explain." Avon might not qualify as a social person, but in situations such as this, when a persistent quest for information was called for, he could show an almost unnatural patience. "Unfortunately, we're not familiar with your customs."

And calling that "unfortunate," Tarrant reflected, probably qualified as one of Avon's more outstanding understatements.

"He's not a man," Rowan said again. Like a person who enunciated clearly and loudly in a vain attempt to communicate with someone who didn't speak his language, he appeared to be hoping that mere repetition would get his meaning across.

"Can you be more specific?" If Rowan had been one of the crew, Avon's voice would've dipped into the danger zone by now, but as it was, he kept it admirably even, nearly without inflection.

With what seemed a major effort, Rowan regained a semblance of composure. "Young males are violent, at the mercy of their hormones, dangerous to society."

"Possibly true." Avon looked thoughtful and Tarrant wondered uneasily what incident his crewmate was calling up from memory. "So?"

"They must be kept under control." Rowan resembled an Old Calendar minister, ready to mount a pulpit and declaim the holy write.

"Tarrant is under my control," Avon said calmly.

The young male in question found himself clenching his teeth. Avon had to say that, of course, but...

"I do not believe we mean the same thing by that, Avon." Rowan halted his pacing temporarily and looked at Avon as if in sudden hope. "Unless you are having--" He seemed to be searching for a suitable term that foreigners could understand. "--sexual relations with your young male?"

For a space of seconds, the mask of impassivity dropped from Avon's face. "No, I am not," he snapped. Then a moment later, apparently realized his mistake.

Not that Tarrant could blame him. He'd have said the same, and twice as emphatically.

"I thought not." But Rowan clearly was disappointed. "I am not ignorant of Federation custom, Avon, but this is how we handle these matters here. Certainly, we could not let young males near women until they're properly socialized."

Tarrant had the feeling Avon might actually agree with that statement, considering caustic commentary he'd made in the past.

"So you use," Avon appeared to be choosing his words carefully, "sexual intercourse as a means of control?"

"It's the best method," Rowan said seriously. "It allows an outlet for their overactive hormonal urges and demonstrates in the clearest possible way who is in command."

To Tarrant, it sounded like, We fuck them into obedience. Remembering the mysterious bruises on a few of the young male servants, he wondered if that didn't include beating them into compliance, as well. It probably depended on the taste of the one doing the commanding.

"But we are not from Fargone." Avon sounded like he didn't expect to be heeded. They both knew that every society was convinced their own mores were universal--a visceral conviction that had little to do with reality or logic. "What if I sent Tarrant back to the ship for the remainder of our stay?"

Tarrant was certainly willing.

"No, Avon. As long as he is on Fargone, our laws are quite clear. Your young male must be..." he trailed off delicately.

Screwed is the word you're looking for. Which was precisely how Tarrant felt, too.

"If you don't wish," Rowan cleared his throat. "That is, I can always assign one of my own men to act as his temporary warder."

No. Tarrant fought down panic. Given this choice, what would Avon do? But, come to think of it, handing him to a Fargonean would probably be the best idea...he'd rather deal with a "master" he'd never have to see again after the fact. He didn't really need to be giving Avon a reason to think of him as less than an equal, a dangerous idea if ever Tarrant had heard one.

"Tarrant is mine." A suggestion of a snarl colored Avon's voice. Tarrant wasn't entirely certain he liked hearing himself referenced in the tones Avon generally reserved for Orac, Scorpio, and other inanimate objects he claimed as his own.

Avon continued in a more even tone, "If the appearance will suffice..."

Rowan shook his head, and suddenly Tarrant remembered the surveillance equipment in their room, equipment apparently a permanent fixture. Fargone didn't leave the fulfillment of civic duty to chance or whim, it seemed. From the expression on Avon's face, he'd drawn an identical conclusion.

"Perhaps you'd like to think about it," Rowan suggested. He glanced out the window, where the sun had sunk only about halfway toward the horizon. Dinner had been served in early afternoon and several hours of daylight remained.

Avon nodded slowly. "I should consult Tarrant about his wishes."

Rowan looked taken aback at the concept, then quickly recovered. "Of course. Perhaps you would meet here before supper and let me know what you've decided? If you truly are set against this, Avon, one of my own men will be happy to oblige."

Avon's voice was curt. "I'll let you know."

Clearly, the discussion was over. Tarrant scrambled for the door, wishing to reach their quarters before Avon for appearances sake, if no other reason. On the way, he prepared himself for what was bound to be an unpleasant conversation.

*

Avon took his time returning to their quarters, as if he'd suspected Tarrant's eavesdropping and was providing time for him to regain his composure. Or perhaps Avon needed that time, himself.

Tarrant spent the time standing at the bank of windows, staring sightlessly at the monotonously regular view. When the door finally opened, he turned with what he hoped was an ironically inquiring expression. "Well?"

"You listened." Avon went over to the desk positioned a few meters away from the windows, and began sorting through some papers one of the minions had left dealing with Scorpio's parts. "I thought you would."

Tarrant took a step forward, then halted again, aware that physical proximity now had new connotations. "I--Avon--" How was he going to word this? "You needn't trouble yourself, Avon. I'd rather be screwed by almost anyone else but you."

The other man looked up then, with an expression that was an odd combination of determination and wry resignation. "There are practical considerations, of course." Somehow, it sounded like the continuation rather than the beginning of a conversation. "I cannot tell you how difficult it would be to locate a proctologist near to Xenon Base."

From the tone, it was obvious Avon had decided to take the job himself. No, not a good idea. They'd been irritating each other enough recently, without taking their jockeying for position to bed. "It is a problem," Tarrant said carefully. A hell of a time for Avon to start taking responsibility for his crewmates, when his crewmate had decided otherwise. "But Avon." He decided to abandon tact which never worked all that well with the older man anyway. "If I have to play the part of a slave, I'd really rather it not be with you. I wouldn't want to give you ideas."

Avon gave him one of his patented are you stupid or do you just prefer not to use your brain glances. "That may be the least of our problems. Did you happen to notice the bruises on some of those young men?"

"Yes, but they were hardly anything serious." Did Avon think he'd be afraid of a few bruises? He'd gotten worse in casual workouts with Dayna.

Avon sighed, a touch theatrically for Tarrant's taste. "Presumably, that's what happens when you break the rules. You, Tarrant, don't even know the rules in the first place. So you'll get hit."

His expression suggested that since Avon himself was frequently tempted to punch Tarrant, he doubted any Fargonean warder would fail to find him in need of correction.

"So? I have been struck before, Avon, and trust me, I survived the experience without any difficulty." From the look on Avon's face, Tarrant deduced he'd just walked into a verbal trap, though he couldn't identify where the steel jaws lay.

"And what did you do when you were struck, Tarrant? And what do you think a young man in this culture would do?"

Tarrant opened his mouth, then closed it again without uttering a sound.

"Neither of us know how to react appropriately in this culture, but I'll wager that you very likely would react like a Federation-trained killer dealing with an enemy. And I suspect that's not the correct procedure here."

This time, Tarrant didn't even open his lips.

"And what do you suppose would happen then, even if you didn't actually separate your warder from his head?"

The answer obviously was "a major diplomatic incident that would get us thrown off-planet, with or without our ship." And Tarrant couldn't guarantee that he wouldn't react in the manner Avon predicted. The Federation had spent considerable resources training him to the point that violent and often fatal self-defense had become an instinct not easily circumvented.

"All right," he said stiffly. "You've made your point." He didn't know whether to be angry, embarrassed, horrified, or relieved; he'd think about that later. Along with the fact that Avon seldom had only one reason for any action, and the other was likely a manifestation of that possessive streak. He could almost hear Avon saying, "if anyone fucks with my pilot, it's damn well going to be me."

Aloud he added, "So. We'll start this civic duty tonight?"

"So it appears." Avon's gaze, normally so direct, readjusted itself to a position just aft of Tarrant's left shoulder blade. He'd abruptly lost the blistering sarcasm, seeming just as uncomfortable as Tarrant felt. Which perhaps he was. "Do you know anything about the procedure?" There was no condemnation in his voice, simply a quest for the best source of the required expertise.

"Theory only, I'm afraid."

Avon tilted his head, as if in surprise. "Apparently, the military academy is a less interesting institution than rumored."

Tarrant cleared his throat and found his own gaze wandering away into mercifully empty space. "More...um, fumbling about." He cleared his throat again. "I hate to dispel any particularly fascinating speculations, but most of us were rather fixated on girls. The other was...relieving frustration."

"I suspect that took place in all the public schools."

Tarrant couldn't help a startled, inquiring glance.

"No. I'm afraid even then the possibility of repercussions...concerned me. Disappointed?"

"Not really."

They exchanged tight, mirthless smiles. Avon shuffled the papers in his hands, then held the sheaf out to Tarrant. "You had better mark which parts we'll need for the repairs. I'll give the list to Rowan when I meet with him before supper."

No turning back now. It was decided.

*

After Avon left for supper, Tarrant amused himself by pacing, first the length, then the circumference of the room. He went counter-clockwise for ten minutes, then switched to clockwise.

Occasionally, he took a break from pacing to stare, faintly nauseated, at the tray of food delivered via dumbwaiter shortly before Avon had departed, the silent message being that young males weren't invited to eat with the sentients.

Objectively speaking, the food looked just as appetizing as that he'd happily consumed at dinner, and had been provided in a quantity obviously geared to a youthful male appetite. But the thought of eating right now... Tarrant folded his lips tightly and averted his eyes.

He had poured himself a glass of the excellent wine provided and swallowed it with a haste that owed more to nerves than to appreciation of the vintage. For several minutes, he seriously considered the advantages of bolting a goodly portion of the bottle for the traditional dutch courage.

However, it took very little consideration to come to the conclusion that the disadvantages of that course greatly outweighed any possible benefits.

Not only would it decrease his already doubtful chances at being able to, er, rise to the occasion--though he supposed that was mostly Avon's job--but also he had a shrewd idea that finding his pilot-cum-unwelcome sexual partner half-drunk was exceedingly unlikely to improve Avon's mood. And this in a situation where Avon's bad temper could have physically painful consequences involving the proctologist Avon had mentioned previously.

No, Tarrant decided, sobriety in this case definitely qualified as the better part of valor.

As Tarrant paced, the last remnants of daylight faded into a brilliant sunset that reflected gold and crimson on the vast carpet of wheat just beyond the windows. The glow disappeared into twilight and then darkness broken only by the scattered lamps that lit the way between the main house and various outbuildings.

Tarrant looked around for curtains to close or an opaquing field to flip on, but found neither. Probably the outbuildings were only sparsely used at night, thus negating the need for window coverings to ensure privacy. Not to mention--he carefully avoided looking at the surveillance equipment above the bed--that the observers were in a sense inside the room already. No need for peering through the windows.

Glancing at the wall chronometer, Tarrant saw that almost two hours had passed since Avon had left for the evening meal. Supper was a less elaborate meal, he'd been told, so Avon should return soon. Very soon.

Once more, he looked over at the bottle of wine, sorely tempted to have just one more glass. Don't be stupid. Tarrant noted wryly that his internal voice sounded remarkably like Avon. Resolutely, he turned his back on the temptation of the open bottle, and continued to pace.

*

Another half hour passed before Avon returned. Just inside the door, he paused, closing his eyes momentarily like an actor coming offstage after a particularly difficult performance. Then he opened them again and continued across the room in a straight line, seeming to have to concentrate a bit too hard on the mere mechanics of physical movement.

"How was supper?" Tarrant offered the social inanity wryly, as a distraction from the minor ordeal that lay behind Avon, and the major one that lay ahead for both of them.

"Lengthy." Avon paused beside the table that held Tarrant's untouched meal. "I lost my appetite, as well." He lifted the opened wine bottle, scanning the label. "May I?"

Tarrant made a "help yourself" gesture.

Avon found a clean glass in the nearby sideboard and filled it halfway, his hand steadier than Tarrant feared his own would've proven under the circumstances. He regarded Tarrant over the rim with a hint of a smile. "Incidentally, I applaud your abstinence."

"It was a temptation," Tarrant admitted.

"Don't be so honest." Avon walked over to the bank of windows, glass in hand. It was a mark of his abstraction that he apparently didn't consider how his face reflected in the darkened panes. Not that the expression actually revealed anything but a tension thinly layered behind Avon's usual mask.

"I asked Rowan for further details on the requirements." Avon paused to take a sip of wine, his movements abrupt, a step removed from his usual grace. He sounded even more remote than usual, as if he were trying to imitate a computer's dispassionate delivery. "These are: Penetration by the older man of the younger, and orgasms from both parties involved. Other activities are permitted, even encouraged, but only these are absolutely mandatory."

Tarrant found himself clenching and unclenching his fingers nervously during this recital and forced himself to stop. "All right." Whether it was acknowledgement or permission he himself couldn't have said.

Avon nodded and tilted his glass to capture the last drops of wine, then looked down at the glass blankly for a long moment. "Well, then." Turning as precisely as if he were on a parade ground, he walked to the bed, placing the wine glass on the bedside table. He sat on the very edge of the mattress, a bit at an angle, so that his back was partially to Tarrant, his expression hidden.

A moment of silence passed. Tarrant crossed that difficult ground after Avon, sitting just behind him, but far enough back so they didn't yet touch. All that Tarrant could hear was Avon's stressed breathing and his own.

One of them had to make the first move. And though Avon had been the one to insist on this course, Tarrant had the feeling he wasn't the one who'd make it. Tentatively, he put his hand on Avon's shoulder and felt the muscles tighten under his fingers.

"This might prove...difficult, Tarrant."

"It's not exactly the easiest thing I've done, either, Avon." He drew the other man back against him, so that the leather-covered back rested against his chest. Even through the double layer of their clothing, he felt the tension that pulled Avon as taut as a steel thread.

But perhaps life itself--their constant headlong flight from the most persistent of all enemies, death--had produced that, rather than this specific situation. He bent his head to whisper in the other man's ear, "Relax."

At the mere touch of breath against bare skin, Avon shuddered, and Tarrant felt a reciprocal tremor pass through his own body. How long had Avon gone without the simplest of human contacts?

How long had he himself felt that lack?

On impulse, he bent his head once more, this time brushing his lips over the nape of Avon's neck. He registered the faint, not unpleasant tang of sweat, and caught a faint whiff of well-worn leather and some citrus-and-musk scent he hadn't previously connected with Avon.

Another brief, abruptly controlled, tremor passed through Avon's contained body, as fleeting as a summer breeze. "This isn't necessary," Avon said quietly.

"Unless you want me to be handed over to someone else and thus cause that major diplomatic incident you predicted, Avon, we must perform convincingly." He brushed his lips over Avon's neck again, this time at the sensitive skin just below his ear. "To be convincing, we must both be aroused. Unless you can think of an alternative?"

Tarrant held his breath during long moment of silence that followed, realizing...realizing...

"No." Avon's voice held no inflection. "I see no alternative."

...Realizing he wanted this. Despite his doubts on how it would effect their already touchy relationship. Had, perhaps, wanted it for a very long time indeed, a desire hidden under antagonism and denial, layer after layer of barbed-wire words surrounding a thorny patch of truth. But he had never wanted a man before, much less such a difficult man as this. And yet...

"No alternative," he repeated, comforting himself with the fact. "So relax. For once, let me take the responsibility."

And, surprisingly, Avon did relax minutely, easing back into Tarrant's light, undemanding grasp. Or was it surprising? Had any of the crew ever offered to shoulder the burden of ensuring the crew's survival save Avon? He himself, of course, had wanted--even demanded--a leadership role. But had he truly accepted all that went with that?

A ghost of a smile touched Tarrant's lips. This, at least, could be considered a start on responsibility. Of a sort.

Leaning forward so that his face was pressed against the other man's hair--surprisingly thick and soft, and smelling faintly of the same shampoo Tarrant had used scant hours before--he reached around to unfasten the heavy leather and fabric vest and slide it down over Avon's arms.

Despite the realization of a few moments before, he felt more than a bit uncomfortable undressing another man. And more than a bit uncomfortable contemplating what he was about to do.

No choice, he reassured himself again. He might as well enjoy it.

Avon cooperated with the disrobing as obediently as a child being prepared for bed, but with the tension still evident in every move and every muscle of his tightly-coiled form. He'd go along with this, but obviously his lack of options hadn't given Avon the desire for enjoyment that Tarrant felt.

He should feel discouraged by that, Tarrant reflected, but instead he felt a stab of excitement at the challenge, the same mixture of trepidation and elation that filled him when performing some particularly dangerous aerial maneuver. As if he were gliding on the narrow ledge between ecstasy and disaster.

Stripping off Avon's shirt, he brushed both hands down the sides of the lightly furred chest, the seductive slide of skin against skin sending a deep, aching jolt of pure sensation through Tarrant's body and making the palms of his hands tingle so that he wanted to do it again. And again.

Avon arched his back slightly as Tarrant's long fingers brushed over his nipples. His head tilted back slightly with the movement, so that Tarrant saw his teeth clench together, as if to resist the torture of pleasure, more insidious than any of Shrinker's threats.

Oh, yes.

Tarrant stroked down Avon's chest yet again, more slowly, his fingers lingering in sensitive regions. On impulse, he dipped his head and started to nip at Avon's earlobe with his teeth. The older man jerked his head sharply away.

Oh, Avon. It's not like you to reveal yourself so plainly. But Tarrant didn't pursue the issue; he knew enough to push the limits of his craft so far and no more. For now.

He let one hand wander downward to the catch on Avon's trousers, inserting his fingers into the top and dragging the friction fastening apart. Avon's hands had wrapped themselves around the edges of the mattress and were holding it in a death grip. "Perhaps at this point, I should take off my boots or this could become awkward." The very precision of his enunciation was revealing.

Not as cool as you'd like to appear, Avon. "Good idea," Tarrant said aloud, and drew back his arms, giving the other man space.

Avon leaned forward slightly to release the catches along the side of the heavy boots--they must weigh a metric ton--then pulled them off with slightly jerky efficiency, placing them an arm's length from the bed with more exactitude than seemed strictly necessary. After a momentary hesitation, he stood to remove his trousers and briefs, walking a few steps away to deposit them neatly on a nearby chair.

Out of an obscure sense of courtesy, Tarrant kept his eyes turned away from the obvious area of Avon's body. But a brief glance had assured him that Avon, even if reluctant, was not completely unmoved.

"Tarrant, I hate to belabor the obvious, but you need to remove your clothing, as well."

He felt himself flush slightly, but stood and started to remove his clothes, if a bit reluctantly. Though he'd been enthusiastic enough about Avon stripping, he found himself not nearly as eager to dispose of his own clothing. He tugged at the fastening of his tunic clumsily.

"Tarrant, your modesty is a considerable change from the ordinary and quite becoming, but there really is no need." Avon crossed the short space separating them and brushed Tarrant's hands aside to accomplish the task himself. Removing the tunic to find a thin jumper beneath, Avon raised an eyebrow. "Are so many layers really necessary?"

"You should talk."

A genuine smile flashed across Avon's face. "True." He pulled off the jumper, tossing it onto the chair, then looked down pointedly. "Boots."

Tarrant started to balance on one leg to perform this feat, as he often did in the privacy of his room on Xenon, but then reflected that hopping around the room like a drunken stork would hardly be conducive to a seductive mood.

Instead, he sat sedately on the bed to tug off the boots. But something about the curve of Avon's lips suggested that his near-excursion into juvenile awkwardness had not gone unnoticed.

With all the dignity he could manage, Tarrant shucked boots and socks, propping them neatly beside Avon's, then stood again to remove his trousers. There was no way to avoid embarrassment now. He slid down the trousers, then the briefs, and deposited them atop Avon's garments, studiously avoiding the other man's gaze. In fact, he avoided looking at anything but the wall.

A moment later, he felt Avon's hand on his shoulder. "Your condition is desirable, Tarrant, if we're to complete this...regulated activity."

"Yes, but..." Tarrant raised his eyes and found Avon to be closer than he'd realized. And also found his gaze almost automatically focused on the other man's lips. Abruptly, he remembered Dayna once saying how beautifully-shaped Avon's lips were. At the time, he'd been piqued, but now he found himself agreeing, simultaneously attracted and repelled by the idea of kissing Avon.

"If we're doing everything else required by custom," Avon answered the unspoken question, "I do not see why we should cavil at that."

"No." Tarrant tried to keep his breathing regular.

Slowly, as if not to startle him, Avon moved closer, both hands on his shoulders now, moving Tarrant closer as he himself moved forward, so at last they stood lightly touching, chest to chest, thigh to thigh.

Tarrant almost flinched as Avon finally put their lips together, but held himself still by pure force of will. Avon moved his lips slowly and gently, as if giving them both time to become used to this at once new and familiar sensation. Gradually, Tarrant found himself leaning into the kiss, opening his own lips.

Then Avon drew back slightly, looking at Tarrant with an odd, serious expression for several seconds before leaning forward again. But, instead of the expected renewal of the kiss, Avon ran the tip of his tongue around the edges of Tarrant's lips, as if outlining them.

Tarrant jerked under Avon's hands and the already erect segment of his anatomy displayed even more clearly his enthusiasm.

"Yes," Avon said softly, then his hands tightened on Tarrant's shoulders, bringing him forward in a kiss nothing at all like the first. Tarrant had often noted Avon's intensity and now he felt it in a physical sense. It was as if Avon put his whole mind and his whole soul and, most of all, his total, undivided attention into kissing Tarrant.

Tarrant found his arms locked tightly around Avon's shoulder blades, pressing himself as closely to his body as possible. One part of his mind still cringed at the idea of kissing someone of his own gender, the other part had completely ceased to care. He wanted Avon to keep kissing him indefinitely.

At last, Avon pulled back, his breathing slightly ragged. "I think we should adjourn to the bed at this point."

"Good idea." Then Tarrant abruptly remembered the surveillance equipment focused on that area.

As if they were as together in mind as they were in proximity of body, Avon's eyes shifted in the direction of the camera.

"I wonder if it's turned on?" Tarrant asked quietly.

"It better be. I'd hate to be wasting effort." But Avon's cynical tone stood at wild variance to his obviously aroused body, and Tarrant found that contrast almost as exhilarating as Avon's skillful technique.

Without signaling his intentions, Tarrant quickly slid his hands around to the front of Avon's chest and pushed. Cynicism abruptly dissolved into a look of utter surprise as he fell backward onto the mattress.

Tarrant followed up his advantage by letting himself fall on top of Avon with a solid, flesh-on-flesh thump. But no sooner had he landed than he found himself rolled over by a body with technically less mass than his own, but obviously much stronger than it appeared. He ended up sprawled crosswise over the center of the bed, pinned down by Avon's solid bulk.

"I told Rowan that you are under my control. Surely you wouldn't want me to tell an untruth?" Placing his hands on either side of Tarrant's face, Avon held him still, kissing him again before he could answer. Tarrant hadn't thought it possible that Avon could put any more intensity into the exercise, but he did. It felt almost like a battle, an attack, a desperate bid for...what?

Between one harsh breath and the next, Tarrant's increasingly hazy mind grasped at the answer: control. The responsibility Avon had assumed came close to killing or at least turning him into a tense shadow of himself but, like a man astride a runaway beast, Avon dared not let go, lest he fall.

There must be a way, Tarrant told himself, a way to persuade Avon to share the burden, to ease back, if only a little. If only...

Just then Avon's thumbs stroked down the sides of Tarrant's face, so lightly as to waken a painful sensitivity. And again. He slid sideways a few centimeters, so that his thigh touched Tarrant's erect penis, and began rubbing rhythmically against it.

Tarrant lost any trace of a train of thought.

Instinctively, he seized Avon's hips, trying to put more pressure on that desirable area. In the process, Avon's body shifted slightly, so that his cock pressed against Tarrant's hip, physical testimony to Avon's arousal, exciting him still further.

Breathing raggedly, Tarrant pushed up against Avon again and again, going half-mad at the sensation of his erection rubbing against Avon's leg, of Avon's hard penis pushing against him. He hadn't forgotten Avon was a man--that would be difficult, under the circumstances--but he'd most certainly gone far beyond the point of caring.

Avon broke off the kiss, nipping the underside of Tarrant's jaw with a series of sharp, not-quite-bites, the hint of pain sending Tarrant several steps further beyond conscious thought. "Avon, please."

Raising his head, Avon gazed down at Tarrant with eyes that seemed much darker than Tarrant had ever seen them. "Are you ready?"

After a brief hesitation, Tarrant nodded. On a conscious level--what was left of it, which wasn't much--he didn't expect to get enjoyment from what Avon had to do. But his body loudly demanded a, perhaps symbolic, climax to what he was experiencing. And against all reason, that involved Avon being in him. It made no sense whatsoever; it simply was.

But Avon still hesitated. "Perhaps it will be easiest if you turn over."

Obediently, Tarrant rolled over onto his stomach, his faced pressed against the quilted coverlet, listening as Avon took from the bedside table the jar the management had thoughtfully sent up in the dumbwaiter with his supper. Apprehension might still be present somewhere at the back of his consciousness, but it'd been buried beneath the driving desire for completion.

Gritting his teeth, Tarrant rubbed his cock against the mattress. The silken material provided a poor imitation for the texture of Avon's body, but he was unable to resist that substitute stimulation. Avon. Hurry.

He gasped as a cold-as-space glop of something hit his buttocks.

"Sorry." Avon did actually sound somewhat contrite. "I'll warm it first." A moment passed, then he felt Avon's deft fingers between the cleft, spreading the warmed lubricant. Automatically, he tensed. But the sensation was not unpleasant, and he found himself pushing up as Avon's fingers brushed nerve endings he hadn't realized he owned.

"Is that pleasant?" Avon sounded a bit surprised, but then so was he.

"Yes." He hissed the word between clenched teeth, distracted by the contradictory impulses to press his penis down against the mattress and his backside up against Avon's probing fingers.

"And this?" Avon slipped a finger inside him.

It felt odd, unaccustomed, but not at all like being examined by the elderly and brusk physician back at Academy. "Yes."

Then Avon moved to straddle him and every sensation was doubled by the pressure of the other man's legs astride his thighs. Just barely, Tarrant prevented himself from thrusting sharply up against Avon's hand. The desire for contact, inside and out, was like a physical and unignorable ache, present throughout every centimeter of his flesh.

Another finger. Tarrant kept himself as still as possible, trying not to moan lest Avon take it as a sign of pain and withdraw.

"Are you all right?"

No. "Yes." He moved his legs a bit further apart, a gesture that might be interpreted as cooperation, but was in fact an attempt to bring his skin into closer contact with Avon's. He found his fingers clenching handfuls of coverlet.

Three fingers. Tarrant nodded before Avon could ask. The other man leaned in closer now and Tarrant could feel just the tip of Avon's cock brush the curve of his buttocks. It was driving him mad. If it continued for many more minutes, he'd be chewing on the bedspread. "Avon. Now."

A moment of silence passed. "You're certain?" But the fingers withdrew.

If he were any more certain, it would be from within the confines of a padded cell. "Yes." Damnit.

Another pause, but Tarrant could tell from Avon's movements that this was to put some of the lubricant upon himself. The mental picture this created in Tarrant's mind--Avon stroking himself with that deliberate and skillful touch--almost resulted in a fatality for the fabric under his fingers.

Then Avon slid down to lie full length on top of him, an exquisite melding of skin against skin, his penis nudging the cleft of Tarrant's buttocks. His labored breathing, now close to Tarrant's ear, belied any attempt at composure. "Now?"

For an instant, Tarrant felt torn by opposing emotion: gratitude for Avon's unaccustomed consideration fighting with his impatience at the man delaying what they both so plainly desired. Or was at least half this hesitation a form of fear at the leap into uncharted waters?

Never mind. Tarrant had gone well beyond philosophy into pure, unadulterated lust.

Releasing the hapless fabric under his fingers, Tarrant reached around awkwardly to curl both hands around Avon's hips while pushing up against his erect cock, trying to pull him into place. The attempt, while a clumsy and a dismal failure, did get Tarrant's point across.

Avon thrust in, gasping sharply. It was a kind of sound Tarrant had never expected to hear from Avon, that of purely astonished pleasure, as if he'd been surprised by joy.

That definitely made it all worthwhile.

"Are you...?"

"I'm fine." It felt odd and, yes, a trifle uncomfortable, to have Avon inside him, but not actually painful. And now even that slight discomfort had begun to recede. He pushed up and back experimentally.

Now Avon's fingers clutched at the bedcover on either side of Tarrant's head, as Tarrant himself had only moments before. Obviously, Avon kept himself from thrusting only by sheer force of will. While admittedly Avon had plenty of this commodity, Tarrant thought they needn't draw on it just now.

"Go ahead." Tarrant's voice had gone unexpectedly husky.

Avon let go the abused fabric and slid his arms around Tarrant's chest. Withdrawing most of the way, he slid in again slowly and carefully, his pelvis fitting snugly against Tarrant's backside.

Oh. That felt startlingly pleasant. "Do that again."

"With pleasure." Avon withdrew again, then thrust home more strongly this time. He paused, fists clenched against Tarrant's chest with the effort not to move.

But second time had felt even better. "I'm all right. Keep going." He wriggled his hips slightly for emphasis.

A sound came from between Avon's clenched teeth that seemed suspiciously like a moan. His hands flattened against Tarrant's chest, fingers making small stroking motions that were perhaps meant to calm him, but had an entirely different effect. "Very well."

Avon began to thrust in a slow, regular rhythm, but this time Tarrant felt it stemmed not so much from caution as to tantalize himself with a seldom-felt pleasure. If Tarrant had voiced any pain, Avon would've hastened to finish, Tarrant was sure.

But Tarrant voiced no pain. Felt no pain. The small discomfort had completely disappeared and every thrust brought an escalation of pleasure. He began to move to Avon's rhythm, pushing back onto Avon's cock, then forward into the mattress.

"Lift up a bit."

At first Avon's instructions made no sense, but then Tarrant realized that Avon's right hand had slid downward and was attempting to insinuate itself between Tarrant's pelvis and the mattress. Tarrant cooperated with the maneuver, inching his knees up slightly so that his hips angled up from the bed.

Given free rein, at first Avon's hand went no further than Tarrant's lower abdomen, pressing him more securely against Avon's pelvis. The minute change of angle pushed Avon more deeply into Tarrant's body and dragged forth a moan of pleasure.

"Good," Avon said softly. Then the hand slid lower, curling around Tarrant's penis. Helplessly, Tarrant thrust into the warm tunnel created by Avon's fingers. "Yes, that's right." Avon's voice dipped into that range that so often warned of danger. But any peril offered now seemed strictly of the erotic variety. "Now let's see if we can coordinate."

Again he began a steady thrusting, but now Tarrant was caught between the Charybdis of Avon's erection and the Scylla of his skillful fingers. He'd never felt anything quite like the sensation provided by Avon's hand. Dissatisfied with simply supplying a warm haven for Tarrant's penis, Avon sought out its most sensitive areas, fingers circling the glans, tracing a maddeningly thoughtful course up and down the ridge. Tarrant just barely prevented himself from a loud and undignified groan of pure pleasure.

But Avon had lost much of his diffidence, as well. His breathing had gone increasingly ragged, brushing along Tarrant's nape like an irregular caress, and his hips pushed forward harder and harder, as if he were unable to properly control his movements. Suddenly, he turned his head a few centimeters and nipped sharply at the tender skin at the back of Tarrant's neck.

"Ahh." Tarrant bucked wildly against the body pinning him to the mattress. He had to have more of Avon; he wanted it to be harder and deeper, with all the intensity that Avon possessed.

Then, as if Tarrant's thought had communicated itself or his involuntary reaction had ripped aside the last of his self-control, Avon speeded his movements, thrusting fiercely into Tarrant. His hand kept up a complementary rhythm on Tarrant's cock, his touch demanding now, rather than delicately seeking.

Tarrant felt surrounded by a multitude of sensation, a combination too intense to sustain: Avon's arm warm around his chest, Avon's hand stroking his penis with increasing urgency, the fine-grained skin touching him at back and leg and buttock, and most exquisitely, Avon within him. Every small change in awareness, every brush of skin against skin, threatened to push him over the edge.

"Avon." His voice made it a gasp rather than a coherent word.

"Yes." Avon's body trembled with effort, then he made one more deep thrust, uttering a strangled cry as he climaxed.

And it took no more than that for Tarrant to follow. He buried his face in the silk bedcover to muffle what threatened to be a shout. The orgasm rippled through him like the crest of a wave, leaving him limp and near insensate.

When he took stock of his surroundings again, Avon had rolled off of him and somehow pushed them both around so they lay in a roughly conventional direction on the bed, rather than crosswise. Tarrant wriggled up a bit, to get his head positioned on one of the pillows.

Avon turned his head, his expression again shuttered. The forehead and high cheekbones were beaded with perspiration, and the edges of his hair were damp, as well, curling at the temples and at the nape of his neck. "How are you?"

Utterly drained. Utterly ecstatic. "Fine. And you?"

Avon nodded, apparently considering that answer enough. "I--" he hesitated. "Rowan informed me that we are required to," he paused again, apparently to search for the proper word, "repeat this every day that we remain on Fargone."

Oh. Tarrant wondered how Avon expected him to react. After what had just passed, if Avon had told him they'd have to make it seven times a day to satisfy some obscure quirk of Fargonean numerology, Tarrant would've danced in the streets. He was sure he must've felt this good once or twice before, but at the moment he couldn't recall just when. For the first time, he found himself envying the late Anna Grant. And wondering how the hell she'd ever let Avon go, even if she'd been offered a place on the Federation council in return.

But Avon would not welcome wild enthusiasm. Instead, Tarrant nodded in a mirror image of Avon's earlier gesture.

"Now I suggest you get some sleep."

Tarrant had no argument with that, either. He felt sleep pull at him in a seductive undertow that dragged him into a velvet darkness. And peace. A peace he hadn't felt for a very long time.

*

For a moment, Tarrant didn't know what had awakened him, and he instinctively rolled to the far side of the bed, reaching for his clipgun. Belatedly, he registered the soft click of a door closing and turned his head to see a thin stream of light issuing from beneath the bathroom door.

Oh. He relaxed back against the pillow. Avon had gotten up to use the loo, that was all.

Then the implication of the thought hit him. Avon, sharing a bed with him. Avon, making love to him. A mental picture washed over him, made up from recent memories: Avon's hands on him, Avon's weight pinning him to the mattress, Avon's...

Tarrant found his penis rising to attention and hurriedly shifted away from that particular mental picture, trying to think soothing thoughts in the direction of his unruly cock. Shhh. No, just go down. Come on, now. Avon wouldn't be pleased to return to bed and find him in this condition.

The light from the bathroom went out just as he managed to dampen his body's enthusiasm, and he breathed a sigh of relief. A moment later the door swung open, but instead of returning to bed, Avon walked over to the bank of windows and stood gazing out into the night, as still and silent as if he were a statue sculpted of flesh instead of stone.

As silently as he could, Tarrant eased himself up on the pillows so as to see the other man more clearly. He'd never thought much about Avon's body, one way or any other, but now he found it extraordinarily attractive. Was that because of the pleasure that body had recently brought him, an objective assessment of a comrade now seen in a new light, or some mixture of both?

The question teased at him only for a moment, then he dismissed it and enjoyed the view. A faint illumination from the lamps outside painted Avon's body with irregular bands of light and darkness, highlighting the surprising broadness of Avon's shoulders, making a mystery of the small of his back, then focusing attention on the narrow hips and neat swell of buttocks. His body had the severe beauty of a sculpture from antiquity, the echo of some long-dead centurion struck down in his prime and immortalized in stone.

Tarrant found himself clenching his hands at the image, at some feeling that pierced through him that seemed close to being pain, close to...

Then Avon turned from the windows, and Tarrant slid down on the pillow, letting his eyelids half-close, so it would seem that he still slept.

Instead of climbing back into bed, however, Avon paused just by the side of the bed and looked down at Tarrant, his expression unreadable in the dim light. For a space of what seemed several minutes he stood that way, just gazing down, no more. Then his hand lifted slowly from his side, reaching out toward Tarrant in a gesture too tentative to belong to the man Tarrant knew.

And, for the space of a breath or two, it seemed Avon would actually touch him...caress him? But then with a slight gesture of negation, Avon drew back again and turned away from the bed, walking again to the window and staring out into the empty courtyard.

Tarrant eased up once more against the pillow. Avon stood limned in the lamps from outside as before, but seeming now less like a statue than some impossibly-beautiful but fortified castle, glittering in the moonlight, defying all who wished to invade or even simply to touch the lofty walls.

Despite that odd stab of pain he'd felt, Tarrant found himself smiling. He'd always fancied himself a white knight--or so Avon claimed--but now he pictured himself as not a rescuer but a besieger.

Or perhaps...both?

Avon sighed, shifting position slightly, and warned, Tarrant sank down into the pillows just as the other man turned from the windows to return to the bed.

Tarrant lay silent, breathing regularly to imitate sleep as Avon settled in, the older man's own breathing deepening into an even rhythm in a remarkably short time. It was common knowledge on Xenon that Avon slept badly, but perhaps a spaceship crash, a near-diplomatic incident, and a fairly vigorous session of hot sex was tiring enough to knock out even Avon. Tarrant himself would be sound asleep himself, if...

If he weren't so thoroughly, painfully aroused.

Tarrant propped himself on one elbow, studying his crewmate's face in the uncertain light, for several minutes content to simply gaze at the familiar face made abruptly strange by the events of the night. Then tentatively, he reached out to trace the line of one aristocratic cheekbone, brushing up against the improbably long eyelashes, then down again to the sweep of jaw.

For a moment, Avon seemed to stir and Tarrant froze, expecting to get his wandering fingers bitten off. But then the older man sighed in his sleep and settled back into immobility.

Tarrant let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd held, and let his fingers wander further. He brushed over the perfectly-shaped lips--his erection rose another notch as he imagined outlining them with his tongue, bestowing maddening, small nibbles at their edges--then down sent his fingers down to the strong neck and the vulnerable hollow just above the collarbone.

The sleeping man stirred, not as if awakening, but as if responding to his caresses. Encouraged, Tarrant ventured further, long fingers sliding down to rasp softly over one flat nipple, so that it budded beneath his fingers.

Yes. Gently, gently, he took the hardened nipple between two fingers and squeezed it slightly. It hardened further, and the unconscious man shifted and murmured in his sleep, the shapely lips turning upward, as if at a pleasant dream.

Irresistible. As if under a delicious compulsion, Tarrant's fingers sought the other nipple, affording it identical treatment as the first, then rolling the hardened nub between his fingers. Avon moved again, lifting his chest to press closer to his fingers.

Tarrant's breathing accelerated, and then his fingers were drawn downward by the magnetism of Avon's sleeping True North. Over the thatch of soft hair over the top of Avon's belly he went, detouring to trace the elegant ridge of hipbone, then over and down again to where his sex slept unsuspecting against one strong thigh.

So soft under his fingers. So unguarded. But not soft for long. Feeling Avon grow beneath his fingers gave Tarrant an odd feeling of power, to control a part of a man himself so controlled.

Shifting his hand slightly, he ran the pad of his thumb up the ridge of Avon's penis and rubbed delicately at the spot on the underside of the tip that he found particularly sensitive on his own body. The organ in his hand hardened further and the sleeping man's hips pushed a few centimeters upward.

Tarrant glanced at Avon's face and recognized that he'd come up from the deep sleep he'd been in initially to a state considerably closer to consciousness. Scarcely surprising, and Tarrant should definitely leave well enough alone now. The thought of stopping seemed intolerable, as impossible as refusing to breathe the air around him, but...

Regretfully, he let go of Avon's cock, really intending to push himself away. Instead he found himself sliding close to the other man, closer to the enticing flesh and skin and bone that enclosed the intelligence and spirit that was at once so irritating and compelling. His leg touched Avon's and the rasp of skin against skin felt so exquisite as to be nearly painful.

Then, without really intending it, he found himself atop Avon, chest against chest, hip gliding against hip, legs draped like human parentheses on either side of the muscular thighs. He had to grit his teeth; it felt almost too good for him to endure...or at least to endure quietly. Avon might well kill him for this, but the threat seemed distant and the pleasure pulsing through him more than intense enough to compensate for his eventual demise.

His hands slipped under Avon's shoulder blades and he lay his head beside Avon's, so the man's surprisingly soft hair brushed against his cheek, adding another tantalizing sensation to an already explosive mix. Without conscious volition, his hips began to thrust and slide against the other man's. Their bodies were slightly out of alignment, so that Avon's cock rubbed against his stomach, while Tarrant's own erection slipped between Avon's thighs.

Tarrant groaned.

The body beneath him tensed. "Tarrant... What..."

The younger man froze. Mostly. His hips seemed to want to keep moving despite his effort at enforcing his mind's directives, his cock longing to rub in and out of the warm enclosure of Avon's legs. He was too excited to feel trepidation.

Avon's voice, thick with sleep, held an unexpected note that finally pierced Tarrant's haze of arousal just slightly: humor. "Apparently, Rowan's correct about those overactive youthful hormones."

Raising his head slightly, Tarrant looked at the other man without speaking. Not only did he not know what to say, he'd very nearly forgotten how to articulate at all. And the fact that Avon had not lost his erection did not help Tarrant's coherence level; he wanted to ignore Avon's words and concentrate on his body.

"Tarrant, that isn't a good idea. It would be uncomfortable for you, so soon after..." Abruptly, Avon fell silent, seeming to read something in Tarrant's face that the younger man didn't even know was there.

A heartbeat later, and Tarrant realized what dangerous--desirable--area of Avon his erection nestled all too closely to. And knew what Avon had read in Tarrant before he had told himself what he wanted. Suddenly, he heard himself babbling, not knowing when he'd started talking and now unable to stop. "I won't hurt you, Avon. I'll be careful." Just before he blurted out, it'll be good for you, I promise, he managed to halt the torrent of words, with nothing to do but stare at Avon, the pleas barely damned behind his lips.

He wanted to be inside Avon. He wanted to be inside him so very badly. And that spoke louder than any reassurances on his lips.

Fully thirty seconds ticked by, feeling like thirty hours. Finally, Avon spoke, his tone carefully neutral, "There is no rule against it." He paused infinitesimally. "It is only fair."

Tarrant held his breath, not speaking, aware he had not yet received a final assent.

More endless moments passed, then Avon tilted his head slightly in the direction of the bedside table. "The jar is over there."

Yes. Tarrant suppressed the urge to offer further assurances, instead reaching out one thankfully long arm to grab the lubricant. Despite Avon's reluctant agreement, Tarrant didn't feel inclined to allow him much latitude of movement or time to change his mind.

He wanted this too much to take any kind of chance.

Scooping a generous amount from the jar, he cupped it in his palm for a moment to warm it, remembering the unpleasantly cold sensation against his backside from before, and not wanting to disturb whatever mood existed. But when he lifted up and reached between their bodies to apply it, the other man moved as if wanting to turn over. Without even thinking, Tarrant flattened one hand against Avon's shoulder to hold him down.

Avon's eyes flickered to Tarrant's face, his expression shuttered. "The position is...a bit awkward."

A bit intimate, you mean.

Faced away, Avon could perhaps at least pretend to withdraw himself, and Tarrant felt more than a bit selfish on this particular subject. More than a bit determined to enjoy every bit of what he might never possess again. I will have at least a chink in those walls, Avon, if it kills me.

"It's not as if anyone's taking our..." Tarrant halted mid-sentence. Actually, it was precisely like someone was taking their picture, and Avon's face mirrored that knowledge. "It's not as if it matters," he said instead. "Does it?"

As manipulation went, it wasn't terribly subtle, even by his own admittedly low standards, but Avon either didn't notice or refused to acknowledge noticing. He shook his head, drawing up his knees slightly.

This time, Tarrant successfully delivered the lubricant to the desired spot. A few short hours before, Tarrant would have considered this more a medical procedure than erotic foreplay. But the thought that he'd shortly be inside the man he desired made him long for a symbolic penetration immediately, and he had to struggle for control, reminding himself of his promise. One finger, just one, and carefully.

Avon had a curiously intent look on his face, as if bracing himself for a pain that, against all reason, kept delaying its arrival.

Tarrant added another. The feel of the tight muscles closing around his fingers drove him half-mad with the driving urge to substitute himself for his hand, to immerse himself in the other man. Just a moment now. Just a few more moments. Clenching his teeth over a moan, he worked his fingers back and forth gently, with determined patience. Not long.

Then he glanced at Avon's face. The other man breathed raggedly, but not as a result of passion, or only partially so. Tension had hardened the musculature along the clean line of Avon's jaw, making his face seem more stone-like than ever.

This isn't going to work, a voice whispered from within.

Stubbornly, he ignored the voice. If Avon would just relax, then it would be fine. Turning his head, he ran his lips over the curve of Avon's neck coaxingly, tongue tracing a tendon down to the spot where the pulse beat strongly...and far too rapidly.

Oh, yes, Captain Tarrant, it will be fine, it will be just wonderful. That's why his body feels as yielding as your average chunk of herculaneum, because he knows he'll enjoy it so very much. You said you wouldn't hurt him; what's your oath worth now, Captain?

Without knowing quite how it happened, Tarrant found himself beside the bed rather than on it, fists clenched and body half-bowed with the effort of will. He looked at the bed again to find that Avon had lifted his head from the pillow, his expression that of guarded...inquiry? relief?

"I'm going to..." Tarrant couldn't quite manage complicated sentence structure at the moment. "...take a shower." He felt rather than saw Avon glance at the camera at the top of the bed. "It doesn't matter; this wasn't in the rules. We've done our bit."

Stumbling blindly into the bathroom, he brought up the lights and found his way to the shower more by instinct than intention. Instead of turning on the water, though, he leaned against the far wall of the spacious enclosure, pressing his forehead against the cool tile.

He hadn't hurt so badly since adolescence. Hell, he couldn't remember being so painfully hard even during the first hot bloom of hormones. He must've done, though. And this would pass. Eventually.

The sensible thing to do at this point would be to take matters, so to speak, in hand. But his own fingers seemed cold and uninteresting next to the flashes he kept getting, even now, of Avon's raw silk skin against his, the feather-touch of Avon's dark hair, that elusive citrus-spice scent that...

Tarrant groaned, screwing his eyes shut against the persistent visions. This wasn't helping in the least.

The bathroom door snicked open, then closed with a sound just barely louder than Tarrant's harsh breathing. A moment later, the opaqued entry to the shower slid to one side. "A shower?" Avon's cool voice echoed against the tiled walls. "What a good idea. But it does help if you actually turn on the water."

Tarrant looked around to find Avon punching the buttons to raise the temperature from the lukewarm setting Tarrant had used before supper. "Cold would be better for me," Tarrant managed wryly.

One corner of the chiseled lips twitched upward. "But not for me." He turned on the water, then calmly reached for a bar of soap and sponge and began lathering himself.

Tarrant found himself turning so that his back was to the wall rather than his face--a move he knew he'd regret almost immediately--watching Avon's motions in a state suspended somewhere between horror and lust. Was this Avon's revenge for what he considered near-rape?

Dry-mouthed, he looked on as the sponge in Avon's hands wandered over the strongly-built chest to the flat belly and then to the still half-aroused sex, giving careful attention to each patch of skin, like a cat grooming each individual clump of fur. Tarrant followed each tiny movement, part of him convinced he'd been dispatched to perdition and the other half screaming that it was paradise.

Finally, Avon put down soap and sponge and rotated slowly under the spray, rinsing off, and incidentally giving Tarrant a leisurely look at every part of his body. And that was almost as bad. Or as good.

Avon shook his wet hair out of his face, regarding Tarrant with a slight, quizzical tilt of his head. "I hadn't realized that being your--" he halted on the edge of a word, as if looking for a detour around it.

For a instant, Tarrant thought he'd almost said "lover." But then he realized intuitively that Avon referred to a perhaps even more distasteful pair of syllables: leader.

"--Associate," Avon went on smoothly, "involved bathing you. However," he retrieved the soap and sponge discarded a few moments before, "if I must."

Pulling Tarrant forward firmly, he applied the soap to Tarrant's chest, fingers touching the skin around the edges of the slippery bar.

"Avon," he protested uncertainly. He wanted to push the older man away--well, half-wanted to do so--but his limbs had given up obeying him altogether.

Avon ignored him, a tiny crease appearing between his eyebrows as he concentrated on the job at hand. Exchanging the soap for a sponge, he began rubbing it over Tarrant's body as thoroughly and carefully as he'd cleaned his own. The combination of the soft scratch of the sponge with the brush of Avon's fingertips was excruciating. The sponge descended to Tarrant's stomach, circling downward lazily.

"You realize," Avon said conversationally, as if scrubbing down his pilot were something he did every day, "that you must learn to do this yourself. If I continue to bathe you on Xenon, everyone else might demand the same kind of service."

Oh, they would. Regardless of sex or previous orientation.

The maddening caress of the sponge reached his genitals and Tarrant very nearly whimpered. In fact, he feared he had actually done so, for just then Avon paused and murmured "patience," before resuming the methodical wielding of sponge and soap.

Avon sank to his haunches, starting to sponge Tarrant's legs, the slight movements of Avon's head making Tarrant constantly aware of how close his penis was to Avon's face. Avon's lips. So damned close.

Tarrant turned his head aside. Some things it was better not to contemplate. Or not to contemplate for more than a few seconds, anyway.

"Turn around." Numbly, he pivoted under Avon's hands, then the process began again, from the back. If the revolution went bust, Tarrant thought dazedly, Avon could get work in a bathhouse. Or a pleasure house.

When Avon reached Tarrant's buttocks, he hesitated for a fraction of a moment, then very carefully and gently used the sponge in the cleft. "Are you in any pain there?" he asked quietly.

"No. Yes. Maybe." Somehow, Tarrant stopped himself from uttering any further contradictions. "I don't know," he confessed.

A hint of laughter touched Avon's tone. "I'll ask again tomorrow." The sponge continued upward, with pauses for more water and soap, up his back and finally over the sensitive nape of his neck. He felt like a mass of tingling nerve endings. "All done," Avon said into his ear. "Now, rinse off."

Obediently, Tarrant rotated under the stream of water, wondering how quickly he could get Avon to leave so that he could take care of his increasingly frustrating condition in decent solitude. But when the soap had been washed away, he found himself pushed against the wall, just out of the stream of the shower, the water-beaded tiles cool against his back.

Avon stood motionless in front of him, something in his posture telling Tarrant his intentions.

"No, Avon. You don't have to..."

An almost rueful expression showed in Avon's eyes. "Rowan told me that I must control your unruly hormonal impulses. I must admit it's a more tiring job than I'd anticipated, but..." Gracefully, he sank to his knees, reaching out to take Tarrant's cock in one cool, slightly-damp hand. He contemplated it thoughtfully for a moment. "I am more accustomed to being on the receiving end of this, but I trust I can translate the principles into action."

Leaning forward, he parted his lips and lapped his tongue carefully over the tip of Tarrant's penis.

Tarrant jerked in Avon's grasp as though struck with a shock-stick.

Avon glanced up, as if to gauge Tarrant's reaction, then turned back to his main target, sliding his right hand back to anchor at the base of Tarrant's erection and resting his left hand lightly against Tarrant's thigh. It should have amused Tarrant to see Avon's face assume the same look of interested concentration as when he faced a mildly-challenging mathematical problem.

Should have. If he hadn't been too aroused to have space left for amusement.

Again Avon swayed forward, this time taking the head of Tarrant's cock and then, seconds later, part of the shaft into his mouth, surrounding it with damp and restless warmth. Tarrant balled his fists against the tiles, trying desperately not to thrust into that so-inviting haven. The consequences when he'd inadvertently tried that with a woman had not been enjoyable, and he didn't want to inspire Avon to homicide.

Avon's hand moved on his thigh, as if to sooth him, though it had an entirely opposite effect. Every cell of his body seemed separately aware of Avon, from the soft scrape of his palm against the rougher skin of Tarrant's leg to those oh-so-mobile lips and clever, teasing tongue.

For long moments, Avon seemed content to torment him, delicately seeking out the most sensitive areas on the underside of the glans. Then he glanced upward, as if to say, "now let's be serious," and began in earnest, taking Tarrant more fully into his mouth, working with lips, tongue, and hand.

Tarrant cried out, and the hand on his thigh tightened in encouragement. He heard himself saying Avon's name again and again as his fingers scrabbled for purchase against the damp wall. Then the warm, wet haven sucked at him harder, hand working faster, until the tension broke, like color dissolving in a kaleidoscope, into brilliance and splendor and chaos.

Some indeterminable time later, he found himself sitting on the floor of the shower, Avon still crouched beside him. "Better?" Avon asked the question seemingly without sarcasm.

"Much. Thank you."

Avon nodded and rose, bringing a problem of his own to Tarrant's eye level. He noticed the direction of Tarrant's gaze. "I wouldn't worry. I am much less...volatile."

Tarrant smiled. "But, Avon, I've heard that those older male hormonal urges are terribly dangerous." He rose to his knees, hands flat against the wall on either side of the other man.

"Are they?" Avon's voice dipped in pitch. He tried to step back, but the wall did not dissolve from Avon's mere presence, as he appeared to expect to happen. And, against its owner's obvious wishes, his cock came to a higher order of attention, as if seeking out Tarrant's mouth.

"Yes." Tarrant moved his hands until they lay flat against Avon's thighs, pinning Avon's eyes with his own as that usually direct gaze tried to slide away, to seek some corner of denial. "Avon, let me."

The older man lifted his chin, as if facing a firing squad, hesitated again, then said, "Very well."

Not wanting Avon to stop to reconsider, Tarrant quickly leaned forward and took Avon in his mouth, sliding one hand up to the base. Avon tasted not unpleasantly of the soap they'd just used and the clean dampness of the warm water. Tarrant moved his head away slowly, so that the tip was at his lips, then forward again to engulf it more than halfway, and Avon shivered once, sharply, before self-enforcing stillness.

This, Tarrant thought, is power. What Servalan wielded over whole systems was a mere shadow of what he held.

The younger man drew back for the space of a few breaths, looking up. The shower still ran unheeded, so that a haze of steam surrounded them, making Avon seem like an apparition from a half-remembered dream, the statue of that long-dead centurion he'd imagined brought to passion and life. Avon had flung his head back, his teeth set in a reluctance to display pleasure, as before he'd refused to show open pain or fear at Tarrant's attempted invasion.

Someday, Avon. Perhaps one day very soon.

But now he applied lips and tongue to his comrade's relief, reasoning that Avon's scientific mind would never have used techniques on Tarrant that he disliked for himself, and content in that imitation for now. He worked at it slowly at first, then faster and more intensely as the muscled thigh under his left hand began to tense.

Then he had the taste of Avon's climax on his tongue and in his throat. Not distasteful, as expected, but surprisingly natural. He drew back in time to slide Avon's body down to rest, half on the floor, half against the wall.

After several minutes had passed, Avon opened his eyes. "Tarrant."

"Yes?"

"Would you hand me a towel?"

Tarrant leaned back to snag a towel from the rack in the far corner of the shower stall, tossing it across to Avon, who took it without comment.

Slowly, Avon stood. He rinsed off under the shower--seeming to remember almost belatedly that he had a towel in his hand and holding it away from his body--then turned off the water, and hung the towel around his neck before crossing over to the opaqued sliding door. "Tarrant," he said again, without turning.

"Yes?"

"If you wake again during the night," his voice once again held Avon's typical hint of satire, "I noticed there are sleeping pills in the cabinet." He slid the door aside and stepped out.

Tarrant waited until he was halfway across the bathroom before calling out, "Avon."

"Yes?"

"You're entirely welcome."

The soft footsteps paused, then the bathroom door opened and closed with a decided click.

Tarrant leaned back against the tiles for several minutes, smiling to himself. Though he felt marvelous, he had to admit he was fairly tired, too. Dragging himself to his feet, he rinsed and toweled off rapidly, and returned to the main room, to find Avon already in bed, looking less like he'd fallen asleep than simply passed out...conveniently on the mattress, rather than off.

At least now he knew how to wear the bastard out.

But for once the thought was indulgent rather than irritated. Tarrant rolled into bed wearily and, because Avon was unconscious and thus unable to wither him with a few well-chosen words, flung one arm across Avon's chest before falling headlong himself into the blessed void of sleep.

*

Tarrant woke to sunshine streaming through the windows at an angle suggesting that the day had dawned some hours before.

Propping himself on one elbow, he contemplated his companion doubtfully. Avon looked amazingly appealing asleep, but Tarrant felt certain that this serene beauty would not persist into the waking state if Avon had missed any important meetings with Rowan's people by oversleeping. Well, the beauty might persist, but definitely not the serenity.

Moving a discreet distance from the other man's body, Tarrant said quietly, "Avon," then a little louder, "Avon." He'd really rather not try shaking Avon awake.

Just then, Avon's eyes opened at last. But, uncharacteristically, it seemed to take him several seconds to get his bearings. "Late, are we?" he said at last.

"I'm not sure," Tarrant admitted. He glanced at the chronometer on the bedside table which gave time in both local hours and Earth standard. "It's 1000 hours. Did you have a meeting with Rowan?"

"Not until 1100." Avon sat up, the sheets falling to his waist, exposing an expanse of chest that recalled some almost too-vivid memories to Tarrant's wayward mind. "I expect we have missed breakfast, however."

That would be a pity, Tarrant thought. He didn't know about Avon, but he felt absolutely ravenous, as if he could devour the whole of one of those rather ugly horned beasts Dayna occasionally lugged back from a hunting trip on Xenon.

"Or perhaps not." Avon swung his legs over the side of the bed and headed toward the dumbwaiter which had delivered supper the previous night. It stood open; probably the sound of its arrival was what had awoken Tarrant.

Avon leaned into the open hatch of the dumbwaiter, giving Tarrant an intriguing rear view of the other man. "Yes, breakfast and clean clothes." Unfortunately, for Tarrant's aesthetic appreciation, Avon turned about all too quickly, the tray in his hands and clothes draped over one arm obscuring the frontal scenery.

Elbowing aside Tarrant's abandoned meal from the previous evening, Avon deposited the tray on the table and flipped away the cloth covering the contents. "Hard rolls, cheese, several types of cold meat." He glanced at Tarrant, his tone sardonic. "It should keep you from fading away before dinner."

"But Avon," Tarrant replied innocently, "I don't want to eat your share."

Avon raised a hand, acknowledging the hit. "Don't hold back on my account. I'll make do with," he lifted an insulated pitcher, "ah, coffee." Pouring some into a cup, he took an experimental sip. His eyebrows rose. "Imported from Earth, I'd say. Or at least made from Earth-variety beans."

This propelled Tarrant into a vertical position even more surely than the promise of food. The small supply of genuine coffee in Dorian's larder had disappeared more rapidly than the best of t