milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Some days it is good to be the (almost) boss. Imp butt gets kicked, a few more planets are freed, people actually shut up and listen when you talk - good times.

Some days it is horrible to be the (almost) boss. Pilots die, missions get scrapped, and someone's glued your helmet blast shield down.

Some days...

Some days all he wants is a re-take.

Like today.

Sadly, the universe doesn't give re-takes.

That's why there's a Corellian running full-tilt into the bar, yelling at the top of his lung a strange mix of something that sounds like English and something that really doesn't, being chased by three determined targeting drone droids. Figures he should have taken his blaster to the gym.

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Yup, it's definitely Plourr, not just a cranky look-alike. The sound, however, just fuels his drive to find out what's going on here.
"Now, Plourr, we can do this the easy way, or the hard way."

The hard way will probably involve bacta. For him.

Plourr sets an unimpressed hand on her hip. "Uh huh. You're not the boss of me, Antilles." Not anymore, at least!

Another cranky cry, this one more insistent, has her sighing sharply. "Sithpiss," she says. "Fine. When the timestream explodes, I'm writing 'Wedge Antilles was here' on the wall." She turns around and takes the couple of steps necessary back to her table.

There is a little girl, with dark brown eyes and a shock of flaming red hair, sitting in a high chair, her face, her hands, her bib, her chair, the table -- everything within a five-foot vicinity smeared liberally with orange baby food. Princess Ianna Estillo-Pernon is six months old, and she is very tired of being ignored.

"You are disgusting," Plourr tells her, scooping her out of the high chair as she raises pudgy arms to be picked up. Plourr turns the both of them toward Wedge. "You could have at least been clean while giving Wedge a heart attack."

See, this is where Wedge is supposed to get his wits together in record time and shoot off a sharp one-liner to prove... something. It's what's done.

...

But.

Plourr's got kids?

Wedge gapes. ... Wittily.

"Wave to the man you're killing," instructs Plourr, and she takes a small wrist between her thumb and forefinger. Ianna waves, with the help, and beams in Wedge's general direction.

"Glad to know she takes after you, Plourr." He manages, blinking at Plourr's baby. You know, there really isn't enough Whyren's in the multiverse. There just isn't.

"Should see her gnaw on things, Cap'n," says Plourr, easily. "She's gonna be a real bruiser."

Yes. She looks very vicious, we are all sure, squirming like that as Plourr wipes her face with a napkin.

"She's got you teaching her. If she's not breaking men down to teary lumps on the floor by five, I'm going to think you've gone soft on me."

It's a compliment!

Sort of.

>.>

Plourr certainly takes it as one, if her broad grin is any indication. "Oh, she's already got her father and half the--" Palace; shouldn't say that. "--Place wrapped around her little finger. She'll do just fine.

"Besides, she's got a Corellian name." She shifts Ianna up a little higher on her shoulder, which is precisely where Ianna spots her opportunity and makes a swift, stealthy grab for Mama's hair. Plourr doesn't even wince, anymore, even with the tug or two that Ianna gives. "She can't grow up to be anything but a hellion and a rabblerouser now."

The name does make him wonder a bit. He knows she's not a Corellian herself - there's just something that gives away the fact she didn't grow up in that system, though he can't really put his finger on it. But to give her kid a Corellian name...

He wonders if it's one of the Rogues.

He kind of likes that idea.

Yes, he's a shameless romantic. Hush. Tell anyone, and he'll have to kill you.

"She does have that going for her. Hope you have secure gravlocks on all of your space-worthy ships."

Probably, what gives away the fact that Plourr is not Corellian is the amount of time that she spends ragging on the planet. It is with a certain amount of (secretly fond) tolerance, though, as she grew up around Corellians in smugglers' dens and mechanics' bays.

As for the Corellian name -- well, it was inspired by a Rogue or two, though Plourr would rather die than admit that.

"We've got a couple of months before she learns to crawl," says Plourr, shooting Ianna (who is currently sucking on a fistful of her hair) a wry look, "and I don't think she's too likely to roll down to the ships anytime soon.

"Ianna, this is Wedge, the ringleader of a gang of idiots; Wedge, this is Ianna--" She cuts herself off before she can spill the last name.

Beat.

"Shavit. This isn't easy, you know. I hope you appreciate how hard I'm working here not to kriff things up, Antilles."

Oh, now, a little ragging on Corelia certainly doesn't do it any harm. Ragging on the current political regime is even widely accepted.
"I always appreciate how hard you work not to kriff things up, Plourr. I appreciate it even more when you manage to actually not kriff things up." She surely can't kill him while holding a baby, right? "And your mommy is one of those idiots, Ianna, so don't you listen to a word she says. You just trust your uncle Wedge on that."

She could kill him while holding a baby. She just chooses not to.

This does not, however, prevent her from shooting him a flat look and throwing a spoon at him.

"No, no," says Plourr, pointing at him. "There will be none of that. First it's Uncle Wedge, then it's Uncle Tycho, and after that, it's a slippery slope right down to Uncles Wes and Hobbie, and the galaxy will never be right again."

That's much easier than any other response, which would probably have to involve the fact that she isn't of the ~~idiots~~ Rogues anymore.

Now, now. Once a Rogue, always a Rogue. It's like that Narnia thing, just with fewer lions and talking mice and more blasters and crackpot ideas.
"You threw a spoon at me, Plourr. I think this baby thing has gone to your brain already, and doesn't need any help from Wes or Hobbie."

"I promised--" Dammit, again with having to avoid names! "--I wasn't going to hit anyone while holding her, so yes, Antilles, I threw a damn spoon at you!"

You had better believe that the part about the promise is said very, very sourly.

"And no promises not to swear when holding her?" He grins crookedly, and holds up his hands. "Alright, alright, I surrender. Don't shoot."

"No," she says, matter-of-factly. "Her father may be stupid, but he knows when he's got a bantha's hope in vacuum."

This is, for the record, said with a certain amount of eye-rolling fondness.

"Fine. I won't." She glances down at the (disarmingly sweet and charming) little girl in her arm. "I can't make any guarantees about this one, though. She's a hell of a shot with anything mashed up and orange."

Not Wes then.

"Oh, now she wouldn't shoot her uncle Wedge." His brown eyes gleam with mischief that he usually (tries) to keep hidden while being the big bad commander.
"I have a way with the ladies."

Plourr rolls her eyes. "Yeah, o-kay, Captain. You keep telling yourself that."

(Ianna, meanwhile, is a great big traitor and is watching Wedge with great interest; she even coos in his general direction, and flaps a hand at him.)

"It's done fairly well for me so far." He shrugs, giving Ianna an over-dramatic wink on the sly.

Maybe someday he'll have kids.

...

Of course, he'd do better to concentrate on the hope that one day he'll have a stable enough life to seriously contemplate kids.

"You went on one date the whole time I was with the squadron," says Plourr. "One."

Well. One that she knew about.

(The thing with Plourr is, it's a posture. You make the scornful comments, you do the back-and-forth dance, and nobody comments on the fact that there's a whole lot more warmth in that half-hidden smirk of hers than she'd like anyone to believe.)

Ianna laughs, delighted, and tells Wedge exactly what she thinks of him.

This mostly consists of something along the lines of, "Ahhh ahh ah ah ah! Ah! Ah," with a happy squawk or two thrown in for good measure.

"And what a date it was. Dates like that can't be topped, so really, there's no reason to keep trying after that." It doesn't matter what Plourr says, her daughter (!!!) has a more accurate view of things.

Plourr snorts. "Not going to ask, Antilles. What the hell's happening when you're from, anyway?" Ianna is occupying herself with making very persistent grabbyhands in Wedge's direction, meaning that Plourr has to occupy her own self with making sure that the kid doesn't squirm right out of her arms.

"You're going to fall right on your head," Plourr tells her, maintaining a firm grip on her despite Ianna's insistence (new person! want!!!), "and I'm not going to clean up the mess."

"Routine patrol work. We were recently recalled back to the Home One - the admiral's awfully jumpy about something. No doubt a new impossible mission that some politician somewhere feels the Rogue name."

Cynical?

Wedge?

...

Some nights, definitely.

"I was going to hit the gym when those droids escaped the armory."

"That doesn't exactly narrow it down for me," grunts Plourr, around dealing with increasingly-cranky child. With the worst of the flailing under control for a minute, she considers; she says, "--Wait, I think I got it. Yeah."

That next mission?

Great one. Really.

Have fun, Wedge.

Wry: "Impossible's the Rogue trade, right?"

"We'll be fine, give the crowds something new to cheer about." He nods, with a blase he never feels. Seeing Plourr's predicament, he offers his little admirer his fingers to play with.

(Yes, Wedge is totally a sucker for babies. Don't tell the grunge press.)