Sufficient Enough
Ficathon piece!
Title: Sufficient Enough
This ficathon piece (based off of someone's prompt, not sure who, sorry!) is for someone who wanted pre-movie, no pregnancy, no tertiary romance, and some "tech-engine babble." I've tried my best to meet all of these criteria well.
Summary: Zoe searches for the reason as to why she deserves his love
Note: So LOOOOONG story short, when I had begun to write for this ficathon prompt, I had a completely different story laid out, outline and all. But when I started writing it it just wasn't working for me, and yesterday when I checked the word count, it was already up to 3,000 words without even being close to getting to the meat of it. So I've shelved that one for now and wrote this one instead. It's a bit of an unusual take for me, since there is absolutely no dialogue and it's from Zoe's POV, but hey, no ignoring the muse!
So enjoy, and I hope whomever this prompt belongs to is pleased with what I've done.
She wondered sometimes in their beginning, secretly, if the life the ‘verse had given her was the one she was meant to have, or if she was instead stuck in someone else’s body, living an existence of someone far more deserving than she. She would find herself doubting the weight of her emotions, at times, as if they were figments of a dream that would soon be swept away in the act of waking up.
She didn’t know why she had these thoughts; lord knows she had seen enough of her fair share of heartache and strife in her years to merit some sort of retribution from the powers that be; the preacher would have explained it better. But there were still those times when she would come up behind him at the helm, her gaze lingering appreciatively on his strong, robust arms, the gentle curve of his jaw, and he would turn at her footfalls and give her a smile that positively lit up her heart, that a nagging voice in her head would whisper, what did you do to deserve this? When is it all going to disappear? And she would shudder imperceptibly, frightened, and he would mistake it for pleasure and run his fingers lightly over her cheek, her ear, the lines of her collarbone and down her shoulder, and then she was shivering from pleasure and would allow herself to be coaxed into his lap, where his caresses and lips and her fingers in his hair made it easier to bury the voice for another day.
In their bunk, now and then, when he had gone to sleep and his soft snoring made a smile grace her lips, she would run her fingertips gently over his nose, ai ya, she loved his nose, and down over his lips and chin, and let her hand come to rest on his chest, where she reveled in the measured rise and fall of his skin and the low rumbles of his snores, and she would suddenly have a tightening of her throat as if someone had wrapped a hand around her neck and was squeezing tight. And she would have to stare at the rhythmic movement of her hand over his heart, the voice hovering in the back of her mind, worrying her into watching his chest, afraid that the rise and fall of sleeping breath would stop. Why are you allowed to be this content, the voice would hiss at her, when there are so many others in this ‘verse who have it so much worse?
And she would start breathing hard, and would not allow herself to cry, and he would unconsciously take her hand in his sleep, and blink his eyes open at the sound of her exhalations, and he would look at her and scoot up on his elbow to gaze at her face, mouth pinched in a moue of concern. She would bury her face in his neck, still breathing steadily as if she had just run a race, and he would hold her and place light kisses along her neck in comfort, and she would allow his arms to once again stamp down the guilty presence in the back of her mind and she would tell herself that it was okay to feel the way that she did.
His caresses continued and his lips more insistent and she would feel his love and attraction for her, and she would let him roll over to cover her with his body, and she treasured him for it. When he entered her, they both would sigh in satisfaction, and his strong body and mouth whispering her name in ecstasy as he moved, and his gentle cry as he came that mirrored her own was sufficient enough to completely drown out any remnant of foreboding that had enveloped her. Her head would fall to the pillow next to his, exhausted, and she would sleep contented, a slumber free of dreams.
Times of great peril, of great danger, were often when she was plagued the least by her inner turmoil. They were flying, fast and at full burn, no more than fifty feet above a planet, their left engine only working at half capacity and he was struggling and coaxing and swearing at the helm, arms surging and trembling with the effort. A trader crossed one time too many by the motley crew was hot on their tail in pursuit, having shot an EMP missile at the engine and now merely following, waiting for them to crash, as a cat playing with an injured mouse before it pounces. She was gripping the back of his chair to keep from being tossed about the bridge, and he was yelling at the captain, who was yelling down to the engine room about the lack of power, and the mechanic was yelling right back up about the compressor coil being shorted out and the spare one needed to be repaired before it could be used. She could hear the mercenary behind her in the kitchen yelling about opening the cargo door and taking a blast at the trader’s cruiser with his biggest gun, and the shaking was getting worse and she could see through the windscreen a mountain about a mile away that she knew they would not be able to avoid unless they could get higher.
He was looking frantically at the power readouts and the engine schematics when suddenly he turned and looked right at her, grip still like iron on the helm, a look and a light in his eyes that she imagined was how he would have looked at her the first time he knew he loved her. He turned to the yelling captain and shouted out that the compressor coil could be shorted back into working order if the left engine wasn’t taxed, if only for a moment, and the captain froze and asked him, crazily, if he intended to turn the engine off, and he replied that indeed he did, a triumphant smile splitting his face from ear to ear and she smiled right back, not even understanding his plan but having faith and love in his convictions that it would work.
He yelled at the captain to grab the comm and tell the mechanic to turn off the left engine on his mark and then restart it, and suddenly she understood his idea and ran back into the kitchen and unholstered her guns, grabbing the mercenary along the way, raced down into the cargo bay and opened the doors, and anticipating his words even as he said them over the radio, she strapped herself down to the floor of the bay, guns aimed out the door, the mercenary doing the same, until they were both lying supine, unmoving, braced against the ground and weapons aimed at the ship in the distance. His voice came on the comm once more, telling everyone to tie themselves down and to hold on.
And she heard the whine and hum of the weakened left engine as it sputtered and then stopped, and felt her stomach drop as the ship began to barrel roll over its horizontal axis, still moving forwards, the weight of the dead engine and the power of the functioning one working together to flip the ship completely upside down, boxes and other things that weren’t tied down flying past her head, and suddenly she was firing at the trader’s cruiser while hanging from straps on the cargo bay floor, which was now the cargo bay ceiling, the bullets up close and personal as the trader didn’t react in time enough to slow to match the Firefly’s speed, and she grunted triumphantly as the she and the mercenary riddled the trader’s windscreen full of holes, and she saw the pilot get hit and fall forward, and she watched as the cruiser plummeted towards the earth, even as the carried momentum of the spin of their own ship continued and she felt the rumble of the left engine as it burst back to life, and then she was right side up again, the cruiser was crashing, the engine was back online, and the mercenary was looking at her like she was the luckiest person alive.
Once they were back in the Black, she unstrapped herself, ignoring the larger man’s cries for help, and she ran up the stairs, through the kitchen where she met up with a flushed and jubilant mechanic, whooping and smiling with exhilaration, and up to the bridge where she shoved an astonished captain aside and threw her arms around him, still in his seat, kissing him fervently on the lips in full view of everyone as if she had never seen him before until now.
The noise of celebration of the people around her faded as he grinned at her stupidly, and she took a breath, and smiled a white, beautiful smile right back, and suddenly the voice was there, quiet but startling her with its presence. How many times can you escape chance like this? it asked nastily; how many more times until he can’t save the day? She swallowed a lump of fear and embraced him again, determined not to give in to the icy fingers that had crept up her back.
It was a time of quiet and peace when she finally stopped listening to the voice. The crew had landed their ship on a desolate moon, devoid of life or civilization, but he had walked outside nonetheless, down the cargo bay ramp to sit on a rock facing away from the ship, a recent mailpad in his hand. She stood at the top of the ramp, leaning against the bay door, arms crossed, watching him and squinting into the oddly beautiful evening in the falling light of the two suns. He sat stiff and unmoving, back straight, completely out of character, and her heart ached to think of him hurting, when she and everyone else were so used to hearing his laughter and jokes ring throughout the ship.
She strode silently and slowly down the cargo ramp until she stood next to where he sat. He didn’t acknowledge her, but didn’t tell her to leave, so she sat down, and took his free hand in hers, and held it to her breast, near her heart, and he looked up and forward, towards the sunset, away from the pad that regretted to inform him that his mother had passed. She reached over gently and whisked away a tear from his cheek, and he glanced at her then, and her heart swelled to see not only the naked grief and sorrow in his watery gaze, but also the open display of love and appreciation and devotion to her, his thanks to her, for being with him and standing beside him.
She lifted her closed fist and kissed his hand that she held, and kissed her free hand and placed her fingertips on his eyelids, and he sighed and allowed his forehead to drop softly onto her shoulder, and she breathed in the clean scent of his hair and kissed the crown of his head, and she felt him shudder slightly and drop the mailpad to the ground, and wrap his arms about her waist and hold her tight.
And the voice wafted out from the back of her mind, but quieter now, almost inaudible, and asked her how long he would continue to feel comfort in her embrace, and why he would go to her, of all people, in his time of need, but she hushed it, knowing without reply that this show of love from him, his complete faith and baring of his soul to her, was the one reason, the one reinforcement that she needed to prove her worth in the ‘verse. She felt the voice settle and fade, and she breathed a sigh of release and relief, and squeezed the hand she still held, and she felt a gentle pressure in return, she knew that his love for her gave her that final purpose and reason to be and reason for her own happiness. And she finally knew that she did deserve it, and found that she wasn’t frightened of its power or what its future may bring.
And so she sat with him, and stared out at the sky, and drank in the delicious silence of the evening and marveled at his love for her, and hers for him, and she knew that it wasn’t perfect, not by a long shot.
But it was enough.
Title: Sufficient Enough
This ficathon piece (based off of someone's prompt, not sure who, sorry!) is for someone who wanted pre-movie, no pregnancy, no tertiary romance, and some "tech-engine babble." I've tried my best to meet all of these criteria well.
Summary: Zoe searches for the reason as to why she deserves his love
Note: So LOOOOONG story short, when I had begun to write for this ficathon prompt, I had a completely different story laid out, outline and all. But when I started writing it it just wasn't working for me, and yesterday when I checked the word count, it was already up to 3,000 words without even being close to getting to the meat of it. So I've shelved that one for now and wrote this one instead. It's a bit of an unusual take for me, since there is absolutely no dialogue and it's from Zoe's POV, but hey, no ignoring the muse!
So enjoy, and I hope whomever this prompt belongs to is pleased with what I've done.
She wondered sometimes in their beginning, secretly, if the life the ‘verse had given her was the one she was meant to have, or if she was instead stuck in someone else’s body, living an existence of someone far more deserving than she. She would find herself doubting the weight of her emotions, at times, as if they were figments of a dream that would soon be swept away in the act of waking up.
She didn’t know why she had these thoughts; lord knows she had seen enough of her fair share of heartache and strife in her years to merit some sort of retribution from the powers that be; the preacher would have explained it better. But there were still those times when she would come up behind him at the helm, her gaze lingering appreciatively on his strong, robust arms, the gentle curve of his jaw, and he would turn at her footfalls and give her a smile that positively lit up her heart, that a nagging voice in her head would whisper, what did you do to deserve this? When is it all going to disappear? And she would shudder imperceptibly, frightened, and he would mistake it for pleasure and run his fingers lightly over her cheek, her ear, the lines of her collarbone and down her shoulder, and then she was shivering from pleasure and would allow herself to be coaxed into his lap, where his caresses and lips and her fingers in his hair made it easier to bury the voice for another day.
In their bunk, now and then, when he had gone to sleep and his soft snoring made a smile grace her lips, she would run her fingertips gently over his nose, ai ya, she loved his nose, and down over his lips and chin, and let her hand come to rest on his chest, where she reveled in the measured rise and fall of his skin and the low rumbles of his snores, and she would suddenly have a tightening of her throat as if someone had wrapped a hand around her neck and was squeezing tight. And she would have to stare at the rhythmic movement of her hand over his heart, the voice hovering in the back of her mind, worrying her into watching his chest, afraid that the rise and fall of sleeping breath would stop. Why are you allowed to be this content, the voice would hiss at her, when there are so many others in this ‘verse who have it so much worse?
And she would start breathing hard, and would not allow herself to cry, and he would unconsciously take her hand in his sleep, and blink his eyes open at the sound of her exhalations, and he would look at her and scoot up on his elbow to gaze at her face, mouth pinched in a moue of concern. She would bury her face in his neck, still breathing steadily as if she had just run a race, and he would hold her and place light kisses along her neck in comfort, and she would allow his arms to once again stamp down the guilty presence in the back of her mind and she would tell herself that it was okay to feel the way that she did.
His caresses continued and his lips more insistent and she would feel his love and attraction for her, and she would let him roll over to cover her with his body, and she treasured him for it. When he entered her, they both would sigh in satisfaction, and his strong body and mouth whispering her name in ecstasy as he moved, and his gentle cry as he came that mirrored her own was sufficient enough to completely drown out any remnant of foreboding that had enveloped her. Her head would fall to the pillow next to his, exhausted, and she would sleep contented, a slumber free of dreams.
Times of great peril, of great danger, were often when she was plagued the least by her inner turmoil. They were flying, fast and at full burn, no more than fifty feet above a planet, their left engine only working at half capacity and he was struggling and coaxing and swearing at the helm, arms surging and trembling with the effort. A trader crossed one time too many by the motley crew was hot on their tail in pursuit, having shot an EMP missile at the engine and now merely following, waiting for them to crash, as a cat playing with an injured mouse before it pounces. She was gripping the back of his chair to keep from being tossed about the bridge, and he was yelling at the captain, who was yelling down to the engine room about the lack of power, and the mechanic was yelling right back up about the compressor coil being shorted out and the spare one needed to be repaired before it could be used. She could hear the mercenary behind her in the kitchen yelling about opening the cargo door and taking a blast at the trader’s cruiser with his biggest gun, and the shaking was getting worse and she could see through the windscreen a mountain about a mile away that she knew they would not be able to avoid unless they could get higher.
He was looking frantically at the power readouts and the engine schematics when suddenly he turned and looked right at her, grip still like iron on the helm, a look and a light in his eyes that she imagined was how he would have looked at her the first time he knew he loved her. He turned to the yelling captain and shouted out that the compressor coil could be shorted back into working order if the left engine wasn’t taxed, if only for a moment, and the captain froze and asked him, crazily, if he intended to turn the engine off, and he replied that indeed he did, a triumphant smile splitting his face from ear to ear and she smiled right back, not even understanding his plan but having faith and love in his convictions that it would work.
He yelled at the captain to grab the comm and tell the mechanic to turn off the left engine on his mark and then restart it, and suddenly she understood his idea and ran back into the kitchen and unholstered her guns, grabbing the mercenary along the way, raced down into the cargo bay and opened the doors, and anticipating his words even as he said them over the radio, she strapped herself down to the floor of the bay, guns aimed out the door, the mercenary doing the same, until they were both lying supine, unmoving, braced against the ground and weapons aimed at the ship in the distance. His voice came on the comm once more, telling everyone to tie themselves down and to hold on.
And she heard the whine and hum of the weakened left engine as it sputtered and then stopped, and felt her stomach drop as the ship began to barrel roll over its horizontal axis, still moving forwards, the weight of the dead engine and the power of the functioning one working together to flip the ship completely upside down, boxes and other things that weren’t tied down flying past her head, and suddenly she was firing at the trader’s cruiser while hanging from straps on the cargo bay floor, which was now the cargo bay ceiling, the bullets up close and personal as the trader didn’t react in time enough to slow to match the Firefly’s speed, and she grunted triumphantly as the she and the mercenary riddled the trader’s windscreen full of holes, and she saw the pilot get hit and fall forward, and she watched as the cruiser plummeted towards the earth, even as the carried momentum of the spin of their own ship continued and she felt the rumble of the left engine as it burst back to life, and then she was right side up again, the cruiser was crashing, the engine was back online, and the mercenary was looking at her like she was the luckiest person alive.
Once they were back in the Black, she unstrapped herself, ignoring the larger man’s cries for help, and she ran up the stairs, through the kitchen where she met up with a flushed and jubilant mechanic, whooping and smiling with exhilaration, and up to the bridge where she shoved an astonished captain aside and threw her arms around him, still in his seat, kissing him fervently on the lips in full view of everyone as if she had never seen him before until now.
The noise of celebration of the people around her faded as he grinned at her stupidly, and she took a breath, and smiled a white, beautiful smile right back, and suddenly the voice was there, quiet but startling her with its presence. How many times can you escape chance like this? it asked nastily; how many more times until he can’t save the day? She swallowed a lump of fear and embraced him again, determined not to give in to the icy fingers that had crept up her back.
It was a time of quiet and peace when she finally stopped listening to the voice. The crew had landed their ship on a desolate moon, devoid of life or civilization, but he had walked outside nonetheless, down the cargo bay ramp to sit on a rock facing away from the ship, a recent mailpad in his hand. She stood at the top of the ramp, leaning against the bay door, arms crossed, watching him and squinting into the oddly beautiful evening in the falling light of the two suns. He sat stiff and unmoving, back straight, completely out of character, and her heart ached to think of him hurting, when she and everyone else were so used to hearing his laughter and jokes ring throughout the ship.
She strode silently and slowly down the cargo ramp until she stood next to where he sat. He didn’t acknowledge her, but didn’t tell her to leave, so she sat down, and took his free hand in hers, and held it to her breast, near her heart, and he looked up and forward, towards the sunset, away from the pad that regretted to inform him that his mother had passed. She reached over gently and whisked away a tear from his cheek, and he glanced at her then, and her heart swelled to see not only the naked grief and sorrow in his watery gaze, but also the open display of love and appreciation and devotion to her, his thanks to her, for being with him and standing beside him.
She lifted her closed fist and kissed his hand that she held, and kissed her free hand and placed her fingertips on his eyelids, and he sighed and allowed his forehead to drop softly onto her shoulder, and she breathed in the clean scent of his hair and kissed the crown of his head, and she felt him shudder slightly and drop the mailpad to the ground, and wrap his arms about her waist and hold her tight.
And the voice wafted out from the back of her mind, but quieter now, almost inaudible, and asked her how long he would continue to feel comfort in her embrace, and why he would go to her, of all people, in his time of need, but she hushed it, knowing without reply that this show of love from him, his complete faith and baring of his soul to her, was the one reason, the one reinforcement that she needed to prove her worth in the ‘verse. She felt the voice settle and fade, and she breathed a sigh of release and relief, and squeezed the hand she still held, and she felt a gentle pressure in return, she knew that his love for her gave her that final purpose and reason to be and reason for her own happiness. And she finally knew that she did deserve it, and found that she wasn’t frightened of its power or what its future may bring.
And so she sat with him, and stared out at the sky, and drank in the delicious silence of the evening and marveled at his love for her, and hers for him, and she knew that it wasn’t perfect, not by a long shot.
But it was enough.