For the recent stealing's quicker (steal a plot) challenge on b7friday, 700 words set PGP. Just be glad I didn't write Little Red Lobstersuit.
Avon and Vila
Once upon a time there was a rebel leader called Blake who became unaccountably annoyed with two of his followers when one of them shot him--not once, but three times, because in these stories things tend to happen three times--and the other just stood by and let him. So once Blake had been patched up and had a nice new armoured vest (his third one), he had them taken out into the woods and left.
"Sod this for a lark," said Vila. "This is all your fault. I'm off."
Avon watched as Vila stumbled over a root on his way. He folded his arms. "And where to, may I ask?"
"Anywhere but here."
"Back to the base? A spaceport? How are you going to navigate in a forest under heavy cloud cover? You'll end up going round in circles."
Vila glared. "I'll leave a trail."
Vila pointed to the scuffed-up pine needles. "I can see where I've been." And because he'd had enough of Avon, he turned his back and walked away.
Avon stood there for a while, then sighed and followed Vila's trail because there wasn't much else to do.
It was getting dark and they had been walking in silence for some time and getting hungrier and colder, when they smelled something very appetising and delicious.
"Cheesy toast!" said Vila.
"Beef bourguignon, I suspect," said Avon.
And they both followed their noses to a small rickety wooden Gauda Prime hut very like the one they'd been in the day before. There was light spilling from the windows, and the aroma was even more enticing, so they pushed open the door and went in. It wasn't at all rickety on the inside, but was bright and clean and there was a feast on the table.
"It was cheesy toast!" said Vila. "And a vege vinders too!" And he immediately tucked in.
Avon sat down with dignity, shook out a napkin and put it on his lap, pulled the beef bourguignon towards, him. and began shovelling it in. For a while there was just the sound of eating, then with a crash, a cage fell from the ceiling and imprisoned them.
And of course it was Servalan.
Servalan kept Avon in the cage and let Vila out to serve the food from the Sardoan replicator and do the dishes while she waited for her ship to arrive from Earth. "After all," she said, "if I leave Vila in there, he will pick the lock, and Avon's the one whose brains I want to pick." She smiled a slow and evil smile. "Literally. We can read memories directly now."
Avon looked at Vila, but he was sitting at the table eating hot buttered crumpets.
"Here." Servalan slid a plate of gingerbread through a gap near the floor. "I wouldn't want you to starve, Avon. You'll need your strength for the vivisection."
Avon looked at Vila, but he was putting some more wood on the fire and he seemed to be smiling in the firelight.
Three days later, a ship landed outside and three large storm troopers came inside. "Come along," said Servalan brightly as one opened the cage and the other two stood there with guns at the ready. "Time to go."
Avon looked at Vila, and for the first time since Avon had shot Blake, Vila looked at him. "Duck," said Vila, "a l'orange." And he pressed a button on the Sardoan replicator. As he and Avon fell to the floor, the room filled with flying foodstuff and a whining noise of ever increasing frequency. "Better run for it," said Vila. "It's going to blow."
Avon paused only to look at Servalan, skewered by a lamb shank and half-decapitated by a white china dessert plate, and ran out after Vila. "What took you so long?"
"Had to wait for the ship, didn't I? Only way off this place."
And they lived happily ever after--well, for another three-score years or so--Vila on Lindor running a pub and Avon on the heavily-modified Federation ship, and half a galaxy between them. Except when Avon needed brandy and chocolate and a reminder of why he preferred solitude.