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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"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.)

Ianna grabs. On the second try, she even manages to catch hold of a finger! She's got a hell of a grip for a little thing, which probably isn't so surprising given the strength of the woman holding her.

There is an immediate insidious attempt to gum Wedge's finger.

"She's teething," says Plourr, dryly, but there's a little smile on her face.

He'll never tell her how much he enjoys seeing her smile like that. It does him good to know at least one of his pilots got out, and has gotten to live that life that they all deserve.

She would break him in half if he told her. So he won't. He has a keen sense of self-preservation.

"I've been nibbled on by worse, I think."

"You say that now," says Plourr. "Just wait til that arm's been gnawed off at the shoulder. You'll miss it."

Ianna giggles around her captive prize.

Plourr caves and grins.

"I'll just get a droid replacement. It's all the rage amongst pilots these days." He retorts dryly (or, rather, slightly damply) as his fingers are drooled over.

"I thought the Jedi started that particular craze," she says. Ianna absently tugs on her hair. "Ow." Another tug. "Ow-- Look, Wedge, would you take her for just a minute here? She's already got you in her evil clutches anyway."

It's not much of a question, considering that Plourr isn't prepared to take no for an answer; she's already starting to hand Ianna over.

"He wasn't a jedi when he... yeah, sure." Ianna is situated comfortably (or as comfortably as one wiggly child can be), and is chattered at.

In Corellian.

Shhhh, don't tell anyone. He's a big bad pilot, really. For serious.

Ianna may be six months old now, but Plourr still tends to be very careful and very slow when passing her into someone new's arms; she doesn't let go til she's sure Wedge has definitely got her.

"Close enough." She pauses in the process of pulling her hair back (all the better to avoid little hands with) to watch Wedge with the baby, for a minute. Wedge speaks Corellian, and Ianna babbles happily right back, after a moment's startled pause as she adjusted to suddenly being somewhere new.

It's -- Yeah, okay, fine, it's a little sweet.

"If you're teaching her anything particularly obscene, share, and if you're badmouthing me, you'll regret it," Plourr says, but there's a smile on her face as she makes a sloppy braid.

Edited 2008-05-30 06:53 (UTC)

"I'm sorry," He sniffs at her, in the great tradition of translating droids everywhere, "Do I look like Wes to you?"

And then beeps Ianna's nose. It's just as well he doesn't go for dramatic effect outside the cockpit that often.

Ianna squeals and bats at Wedge's hand, her eyes crossing as she tries to follow.

"Dark hair," says Plourr, "short. Funny-looking.

"Yeah, you do."

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