Firefly/Mal-Zoe/Volunteer
Title: Volunteer
Fandom: Firefly
Characters: Mal/Zoe
Prompt: Table 1, #074 - Fire
Word Count: 766
Rating: PG
Summary: The war hits close to home.
Author's Notes: Table can be found here
Sun-up on Saturday always means Marketplace on Shadow, and this Saturday is no different. What is different, Mal notes, is that there are no thronging crowds of people laughing and shouting in loud voices, no swirl of crimson-colored clothing or vivid, earthen hues as they pass. Marketplace is usually a friendly space, people tipping their hats to complete strangers; Afternoon and how do you do, we’re all neighbors here, they seemed to say. But today, the thronging crowds have dwindled to a scattered few who shuffle along, heads down and voices quiet when they do speak, faces pale beneath dull shades of dress.
Mal supposes he’s not the only one got some bad news yesterday.
The vendors are pitiful few, and not a single one calls out to him as he passes by, huddled beneath their awnings with watchful eyes on the heavens above. The sky is smeared slate gray with the promise of rain, dark clouds that swell and seem to muffle the noise of the streets, swallowing the sounds. There’s only one booth doing business today, and there, people wait in line, patient and silent, their eyes availed and uncaring of the sky, thoughts turned somewhere deep inside, where only the heart can see.
Mal joins them, standing in line behind a tall man with a long, dirty neck and an unfortunate mass of ratty, orange hair. The man doesn’t greet him, doesn’t even so much as shift his weight, and Mal doesn't say a word. On any other day, they’d smile and shake hands, maybe talk about growing corn, or training foals. But they're not here for market, today.
Someone steps in line behind Mal, and he doesn't turn, keeps his eyes on the back of the farmer's dirty neck. He can smell sweat, and hay, and from somewhere far off, the delicate scent of fragile flowers.
“They think they're gonna bring us freedom by bringin' us civilization.” Captain Alleyne's laughter echoes gruffly inside his mind, and he can almost feel the clap of that big, brown hand on his young shoulder. “You listen to me, Malcolm. Ain't civilization what makes a man free. It's civilization what holds him down. Doin' his will, that's what makes a man free. What makes a man, a man."
"Won't be long now," Captain Alleyne says, looking out over the empty fields as if seeing what's to come. "Til they come out here, thinkin' they can tell us wrong from right. Thinkin' they can tell me what to do with my boat."
He hadn't understood then, standing on his front porch waving goodbye, Captain and Zoe Alleyne etched against the pink-rimmed dawn sky as they waved back, long browncoats flapping in the ship's engine winds. Memory of Zoe's arms around him, lips warm as they pressed against his ear.
"Not sayin’ goodbye, Mal. Just so long for a while"
"God willin', me an' Zoe'll see you again one day when all this is over."
He hadn't understood then. The war was far away from them, just a story people told. The fullness of understanding had come with a scrap of paper delivered to his Mama's hand yesterday.
"Bad news, Mal..." His Mama's face, weathered lines and slack, liquid gaze and he's never seen the like. Blue eyes, deeper blue than his, cornflowers and the color of the sky at sunset, he know--knows their colors and has named them all--now turned black and hollow, empty as starless night.
"Next."
He expects the man behind the table to take one look at him and send him home, but he just clears his throat, strokes his grizzly, salt-and-pepper flecked cheeks as Mal approaches, lukewarm interest in those faded blue eyes.
"How old are you, son?"
"Nineteen."
The old man grunts, and the sound is neither approval nor disagreement, just an acknowledgement as he reaches for a sheet of paper and pushes it across the table towards Mal.
"Need to read that and then sign it.”
Mal looks down, stares at the paper for a long moment. He thinks of fire in zero gravity; how beautiful it must be, how it must dance, licking along the air in hot, bright ribbons, red, greedy tongues, ravenous and ethereal as they consume.
He wonders if Captain Alleyne died quick or slow, those tongues kissing his eyes, smothering him in a lover's embrace. Wonders if Zoe looked like an angel, the lush forest of her hair a nimbus around her face as it burned.
He doesn’t read it. Bends and carefully signs his name, then walks home to tell his Mama goodbye.
Fandom: Firefly
Characters: Mal/Zoe
Prompt: Table 1, #074 - Fire
Word Count: 766
Rating: PG
Summary: The war hits close to home.
Author's Notes: Table can be found here
Sun-up on Saturday always means Marketplace on Shadow, and this Saturday is no different. What is different, Mal notes, is that there are no thronging crowds of people laughing and shouting in loud voices, no swirl of crimson-colored clothing or vivid, earthen hues as they pass. Marketplace is usually a friendly space, people tipping their hats to complete strangers; Afternoon and how do you do, we’re all neighbors here, they seemed to say. But today, the thronging crowds have dwindled to a scattered few who shuffle along, heads down and voices quiet when they do speak, faces pale beneath dull shades of dress.
Mal supposes he’s not the only one got some bad news yesterday.
The vendors are pitiful few, and not a single one calls out to him as he passes by, huddled beneath their awnings with watchful eyes on the heavens above. The sky is smeared slate gray with the promise of rain, dark clouds that swell and seem to muffle the noise of the streets, swallowing the sounds. There’s only one booth doing business today, and there, people wait in line, patient and silent, their eyes availed and uncaring of the sky, thoughts turned somewhere deep inside, where only the heart can see.
Mal joins them, standing in line behind a tall man with a long, dirty neck and an unfortunate mass of ratty, orange hair. The man doesn’t greet him, doesn’t even so much as shift his weight, and Mal doesn't say a word. On any other day, they’d smile and shake hands, maybe talk about growing corn, or training foals. But they're not here for market, today.
Someone steps in line behind Mal, and he doesn't turn, keeps his eyes on the back of the farmer's dirty neck. He can smell sweat, and hay, and from somewhere far off, the delicate scent of fragile flowers.
“They think they're gonna bring us freedom by bringin' us civilization.” Captain Alleyne's laughter echoes gruffly inside his mind, and he can almost feel the clap of that big, brown hand on his young shoulder. “You listen to me, Malcolm. Ain't civilization what makes a man free. It's civilization what holds him down. Doin' his will, that's what makes a man free. What makes a man, a man."
"Won't be long now," Captain Alleyne says, looking out over the empty fields as if seeing what's to come. "Til they come out here, thinkin' they can tell us wrong from right. Thinkin' they can tell me what to do with my boat."
He hadn't understood then, standing on his front porch waving goodbye, Captain and Zoe Alleyne etched against the pink-rimmed dawn sky as they waved back, long browncoats flapping in the ship's engine winds. Memory of Zoe's arms around him, lips warm as they pressed against his ear.
"Not sayin’ goodbye, Mal. Just so long for a while"
"God willin', me an' Zoe'll see you again one day when all this is over."
He hadn't understood then. The war was far away from them, just a story people told. The fullness of understanding had come with a scrap of paper delivered to his Mama's hand yesterday.
"Bad news, Mal..." His Mama's face, weathered lines and slack, liquid gaze and he's never seen the like. Blue eyes, deeper blue than his, cornflowers and the color of the sky at sunset, he know--knows their colors and has named them all--now turned black and hollow, empty as starless night.
"Next."
He expects the man behind the table to take one look at him and send him home, but he just clears his throat, strokes his grizzly, salt-and-pepper flecked cheeks as Mal approaches, lukewarm interest in those faded blue eyes.
"How old are you, son?"
"Nineteen."
The old man grunts, and the sound is neither approval nor disagreement, just an acknowledgement as he reaches for a sheet of paper and pushes it across the table towards Mal.
"Need to read that and then sign it.”
Mal looks down, stares at the paper for a long moment. He thinks of fire in zero gravity; how beautiful it must be, how it must dance, licking along the air in hot, bright ribbons, red, greedy tongues, ravenous and ethereal as they consume.
He wonders if Captain Alleyne died quick or slow, those tongues kissing his eyes, smothering him in a lover's embrace. Wonders if Zoe looked like an angel, the lush forest of her hair a nimbus around her face as it burned.
He doesn’t read it. Bends and carefully signs his name, then walks home to tell his Mama goodbye.