Nico (vilakins) wrote,
Nico
vilakins

Ficlet: Security Blanket

I seem to be behind on my cross-posting. A couple of weeks ago on b7friday, the topic was memories. Here are 400 words set in season 4.

Security Blanket

No one else would have looked at it twice, but when Vila was exploring Xenon base and found an old rug in a corner of a storeroom, he grabbed it straight away for his bedroom. There were nicer bed coverings available (even if they were all various shades of grey) and the rug looked a bit like a prison blanket, but it had tassels. Just like the one at home.

Course, this lot’d turn their noses up if they saw where he grew up: a standard two-room Delta apartment (well, three if you counted the cubicle with shower and loo) and Vila supposed the whole thing would have fit in his room here. It had the usual white plasteel walls (best you could say of those is they stayed clean) but his mum had stuck bright pictures and hangings from the market all over them till they lived in a colourful clutter full of knick-knacks. Funny thing was, he’d probably get claustrophobic now if he went back, but it had been their private and safe little world and as bright and exotic as a Goth tent.

His mum had had the bedroom (and that's what it was--room for a bed and nothing much else; Vila’s bathroom here was bigger) and he slept on the couch in the other room which was dining room, lounge, and kitchen combined. He’d loved that room. It smelled of warm toast or vegetable soup and it always felt cosy there with his mum pottering about and chattering away to her ‘little man’.

There’d been a tartan rug on the couch to keep it clean which doubled as Vila’s blanket at night. It had long tassels and when he was sick or just having a comfy early night in bed, he’d plait them into braids, each one a different colour combination.

He wished he was back there so hard it hurt, back where he counted, where he was safe and loved and hadn’t yet lost so much: his mum, his friends, and, he was beginning to think, himself. He pulled the rug up and closed his eyes so that he couldn’t see it was grey and began to plait the tassels, bright red and green and gold and purple in his imagination. If he tried hard enough, drank enough of Dorian’s wine, he might even believe for one aching moment that he was back home.

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