Title: Tailor Made Version: 1.0, posted 4/22/07 (originally posted to LiveJournal 10/16/06) Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Alas, not mine. (See full disclaimer on previous
page.)
Summary: When Jarriere and Vila get to drinking, secrets are
revealed. Set in my 'Jarriere on the Scorpio' universe. A/N: Written for Nicola Mody for part of a LiveJournal ficlet challenge.
Her requests are listed after the story, in order to avoid spoiling it.
Tailor Made
by Mistral Amara
Vila belched loudly. "Ah, that's some good stuff."
"Aye," replied Jarriere, refilling their glasses. "'Tis a good thing
Avon didna think to check the intake manifold cover."
"He might next time."
"No
worries. I know a hundred hidin' places that'll hold a body on a ship
this size. I had to, workin' for Herself. A case o' whisky is easy in
comparison."
Vila was never too drunk to know when a good story might be had. "You
never did tell me how you wound up working for Servalan."
"Oh,
that." Jarriere grimaced. "'Twas a misunderstandin'. Some o' her staff
told her they'd heard me in the bar, boastin' about all the kills I'd
made. Next day, I was spirited away to meet with her in secret. What
could I do? If I'd refused to work for her, I'd ha' nae been seen
again."
"Serves you right, after all that killing," said Vila.
"And then boasting about it. It's hard to think a nice fellow like you
could be so bloodthirsty."
"That was no' what I meant! Great
Haggis, man, I'm a tailor! I was talkin' about all the kilts I'd made.
They're me specialty." He stuck out one leg as an example; a knobbly
knee showed below a length of tartan.
"Ah," said Vila sagely. "I
suppose that's not quite as bad. Hang on, then--you must know the
answer to that old question: What does a Scotsman wear beneath his
kilt?"
"I do. But it isna' somethin' we speak about."
"Come
on, you can tell me. What is it? Y-fronts? Tightie-whities?
Man-o-kinis?" Vila's voice dropped to a whisper. "You do wear
something, don't you?"
Jarriere stiffened, in a limp, drunken way. "I canna say. It's beneath
me dignity as a Scot."
"Oh. Okay, then." Vila grabbed the bottle and topped off Jarriere's
glass, then raised his own in a toast. "To the Scots!"
"To the Scots," said Jarriere, mollified. He downed the glass.
"Of course, the Scots have one failing," mused Vila. "They're not very
athletic, are they?"
"The devil you say, man!"
"No, really. I've never met a single Scotsman who could do a headstand."
"Nonsense!"
Jarriere stumbled from his chair, bent double, and executed a wobbly
headstand. "For Scotland!" he cried, bare legs waving in the air above
a fallen kilt and a pair of tartan underpants.
"Scotland!" echoed Vila, before collapsing into laughter. "But why--ah,
hah--why boxers?"
"What?"
asked Jarriere, falling to the floor. He sat up with one hand pressed
gingerly to his back. "Ow. Oh, I see. Verra clever." He reddened
slightly. "It's the tartan. 'Tis easier to line up the plaid on
straight seams."
Vila grinned and poured Jarriere another drink.
"Don't worry, I won't tell. At least, not if you can get Soolin into
one of those kilts."
"What about Miss Dayna?"
"Her, too." They looked at each other. "You don't
suppose . . ."
"He'd have to be verra drunk."
"I'd have to be very drunk to suggest it."
"Which ye are."
"Good. Let's have another, then. What shall we drink to?"
"To Himself."
"To Himself's knees!"
After
that, even Vila had to admit things got a bit silly. But neither of
them dared explain to Avon why, for the next week, they giggled every
time they saw him.