That Old Academy Charm

AN: This could turn into a series, or something longer, if I get enough time, and you guys are interested. Tell me what you think!

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Welcome to the fallout,
Welcome to existance,
The tension is here,
The tension is here,
Between who you are and who you could be,
Between how it is and how it should be.

I dare you to move,
I dare you to move,
I dare you to lift yourself up off the floor,
I dare you to move,
I dare you to move,
Like today never happened,
Like today never happened before.
-Switchfoot 'I dare you to move'

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The man hardly had time to blink before a hand fastened itself, with cold, deadpan precision, around his neck, a steely grip that threatened to crush his larynx if he pushed his luck.

"Apologise to the lady," Rhade's command was as deadpan as his expression, hardly glancing up from his drink to look at the man he had by the throat. He might have been asking someone to pass the salt.

The man wheezed, clawing haplessly at the hand around his neck, his feet just touching the ground. Rhade sighed, irritably, as if a fly were buzzing round his head. "Perhaps I didn't make myself clear. Apologise to the lady, or you may find yourself devoid of a windpipe. Do you understand?"

The man nodded vigorously, as much as the Nietzschean's grip would allow, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

Though his voice was raspy for lack of air, his face turning an unpleasant shade of puce, the message got across. Rhade dropped him, as abruptly as he'd grabbed the offender in the first place.

The man collapsed to the floor of the bar, rubbing his neck.

Beka, sitting next to Rhade, raised an eyebrow. "And yet, still more charming than Harper."

"I simply find offensive remarks made to women… offensive," Rhade replied, refusing to look at her, still nursing his drink, his expression morose, "particularly women for whom I hold a certain amount of cautious respect."

"Cautious respect, huh?" He could feel her grin, wry and cynical as he felt.

"Extremely cautious."

Beka shook her head, and downed the last of her drink, "I better get going. Shipments to make. People to rip off. Scrawny engineers to beat up until they fix my ship. That sort of thing."

"Uh-hu."

No interest. Beka sighed, inwardly. She had never thought she would wish to have Rhade back. The Rhade she had known. Telemachus, as she had often thrown at his face when he called her Rebecca. The Rhade who had those oh-so-earnest eyes and an innocent sense of humour and an ability to say her name, her full name, in a way that made it seem like he wasn't mocking her.

Whatever he had gone through, it must have been about as close to hell as anyone could get without actually being there.

But hey, this new, jaded warrior, fallen-from-grace look he was sporting was kinda hot.

"Try not to pass out," she advised as she got up, "and if you have to, try to fall on your side. Can't have our resident Nietzschean warrior choking on his own vomit."

"You care?" his words were mumbled, not deliberately, but because he had, once again, lost any enthusiasm for communication with the outside world.

"Hey, if you died, who'd be there to stand around looking jaded and sulky?" Beka poked him.

He rolled his eyes but made no reply.

Beka, probably because she had had her own fare share of what ever passed for spirits that evening, kept talking, "and, if you start puking blood, it's time to get your stomach pumped."

"I'll bare that in mind," he drawled, his words carrying only a hint of the alcohol he had been steadily swilling since that afternoon.

She stood up, leaving him to drink himself into oblivion. Dumb Nietzschean and his rugged-round-the-edges, acting-tough-to-conceal-the-pain look. Honourable warrior gone bad. Drank himself stupid every night, yet grabbed anyone who insulted her by the throat and demanded an apology.

It was almost sweet, in a psychotically depressing kind of way.

On impulse, and alcohol, she leaned down, and pressed her lips to his cheek. He smelled of spirits and sweat, and his skin was scratchy in a way that suggested his hadn't shaved in about two days, which was the case. But he turned his head against her, and the feeling of his fingers gently brushing the skin in front of her ear made her linger for a few seconds, her forehead against his temple, eyes closed, needing the touch, the contact, the confirmation of existence, of humanity, of the past, the present, the future, and some kind of point.

His breath was shaky, though that was probably the drink.

"Thanks, Rhade," her voice, barley more than a murmur, a mumbled thought which somehow found it's way out of her mouth.

"S'okay," deadpan, bored, sheepish, still shaking.

And he jerked away from her, rubbing the skin between his nose, and gulped down some more of his drink, like nothing had happened. "Goodnight."

"'Night."

He waved an arm at her, his words a little disjointed seeming. His eyes were still closed, "and, be careful on the road… out there… lots of people… this time of night. Not great to, uh, hang… around. Goodnight, Rebecca."

Beka smiled. Still with that old Academy charm. Poor bastard. Where had she ever been without him? "Goodnight, Telemachus."

He was still shaking as she walked away.