Fic: Ulysses (1/?) [Ten/Rose/Jack - PG13 - spoilers through DWs4 and CoE]
Title: Ulysses (1/?)
Author: aibhinn
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Rose, Jack, Ten (will end up OT3).
Spoilers: DW Journey's End, TW Children of Earth, and all aired Firefly canon, including episodes and the movie Serenity.
Betas: larielromeniel, dameruth and canaana, though I did some editing after I got it back from them, so if I messed it up, it's not their fault!
Summary: After the death of the blue-suited Doctor, an immortal Rose uses the dimension cannon to teleport herself back into her home universe. Or should that be 'Verse? Crossover with Joss Whedon's Firefly.
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine. I promise to put everything back where I found it.
Author's Note: The title refers to the poem of the same name by Tennyson, an online version of which can be found here. I know, I know, it's another WIP, but this one grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and refused to let go.
Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10
Chapter 1
Mal eased himself onto a bar stool between a bald guy and a blonde girl and ordered a pint of the local ale, which wasn't bad as these things went. Better than a lot of local-made brews out here on the Rim; at least the crops here actually included hops. Bitter it might be, and a bit rough, but it cut the dust in his throat, and that was good enough for him.
Movement caught his eye, and he watched as the blonde girl beside him-couldn't have been more than twenty-five, tops-downed a shot and slammed the glass onto the bar next to six others. A glint of metal in the dim light made him notice the wide bracelet, sorta silvery in color, that surrounded her right wrist. Some sort of bigwig, he guessed, if she was wearing a PSC bracelet. Nobody messed with the Personal Safety Corporations. "Gimme another one," she said in an accent that reminded him of Badger.
"You from Dyton?" he asked before he could stop himself.
She glanced at him sideways. "Somethin' special about Dyton?" she asked as the barkeep poured another shot and set it in front of her. Strangely, after seven shots of some damn fine whiskey, she didn't slur her words, not a bit. Mal was aware enough of his own shortcomings to know that he'd have been weaving on the stool by that point, and he out-massed this girl by a fair amount.
"Not really," he answered. "Why?"
"'Cause you're not the first one to ask me that." Again she tilted her head back and swallowed the shot in one gulp, grimacing slightly. As well she might; smooth as silk that whiskey might be-he'd had it once or twice-but it was still 120 proof, and packed a hell of a punch.
He shrugged. "You sound like you might be, is all. Got a business acquaintance from there, and you sound a lot like him."
She swung around to face him, eyes wide, and he blinked, quickly revising his mental name for her. This was no girl, not if the depth of pain in her eyes was anything to go by. "You do?" she asked intently. "What's he look like?"
Strangely enough, little as he liked or respected Badger, he found himself loath to rat the little ferret out to a complete stranger. "Why d'you want to know?" he hedged.
"I'm lookin' for someone." Her gaze was intense. "Someone I used to know. A friend."
More than a friend, his instincts told him, but that was yet another reason not to tell her. "Why don't you describe this friend a'yours, and I'll tell you if I think I know him," he suggested. Seemed safe enough. If it wasn't Badger, no skin off his back; if it was, he'd lie to the woman and then let Badger know someone was after him, thereby gaining an owed favor. Nothing was worth more out here on the Rim than an owed favor, even between enemies. Which he and Badger were not, to be honest, but they weren't 'xactly pals, either.
The blonde searched his face for a moment, then said, "Tall. Skinny. Brown hair that seems to have a life of its own. Usually wears a pinstripe suit and a tie, with a brown overcoat. Sounds like me. Talks nonstop. Calls himself the Doctor." Those eyes seemed to bore into his, deep brown with odd little gold flecks in them. "Sound familiar?"
"'Fraid not, miss," he said honestly. Her face fell, and damn if he didn't feel bad for having to tell her so. "Sorry," he added.
One corner of her mouth quirked up in what looked like a concerted effort at a polite smile. "Nah, s'okay," she said, and turned back to the bar. "Long shot, I guess."
"It's a big system," he offered. "Maybe you should go in closer to the Core, talk to one of them big hospitals there. They're always looking for doctors. Might be someone would know where to find yours."
Another quirk of her mouth, a little more successful this time. "He's not that kind of Doctor," she said. Leaning her head in her hands, she rubbed her forehead with the tips of her fingers, then bent back, stretching. "I'm getting too old to sit on these backless things," she said ruefully.
Mal snorted. "I ain't one to gainsay a lady, 'specially not one I just met, but if you're old, I must be purely decrepit."
This time she did laugh. "I'm older than I look," she assured him.
"Old enough to hold your liquor, that's for sure." He gestured vaguely at the eight shot glasses lined up in front of her. "Never seen anyone do that and still talk like a sensible person."
"Never said I was sensible," she corrected, though there was a note of-something-in her voice that he didn't quite get. "I'm looking for a-friend-I got separated from. Long time ago, now. He's probably forgotten about me."
She touched the ring on her hand, and Mal startled; he hadn't seen that. He must be getting old to have missed something that obvious. He eased backwards, putting space between himself and the woman beside him. Never sit too close to a married woman, that was his motto. Well, unless you knew exactly where her husband was-hopefully by prior arrangement with the lady herself. "You and your husband looking together, then?" he asked.
"No," she said softly, one finger stroking over the gold. "He was a lot older than me, and he didn't…heal as well as I do. He died a few months ago. So I'm looking by myself. I know I'm getting close, but I just don't quite know where to find my friend."
"I'm sorry," Mal said just as quietly. Something inside him was twisting. Maybe he should help her. Maybe he should bring her back to Serenity, see if Inara had met this Doctor fella, or could find out something about him through her contacts.
Then he shook himself, though purely internally. What was he doing, thinking of bringing a complete stranger onto his boat? He already had Simon and River to worry about-though the two of them were pulling their own weight, he had to admit. But he couldn't afford to take on a charity case, not with their jobs of late becoming less and less legal. He couldn't risk her finding out what they did and perhaps reporting them to the Alliance.
She was silent for a long minute more, then she sighed and reached into her belt pouch, coming up with enough credits to pay for her drinks. She laid them on the bar. "Time for me to go, I think," she said. "Thanks for the chat."
She slid off the bar stool, picking up a long, black coat and sliding it on with practiced grace. That woman could give Zoë a run for her money, if she was minded to, Mal thought. He could tell just from the way she moved. She gave off that same sense of controlled power.
"What's your name?" he asked, before she stepped out of earshot.
She turned round and grinned at him. "What's yours?" she challenged.
"Mal. Cap'n Malcolm Reynolds. My boat's called Serenity."
Her smile widened. "Pleased to meet you, Captain Reynolds," she said. "I'm Rose."
Turning, she wriggled through the crowd of folks and disappeared.
Author: aibhinn
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Rose, Jack, Ten (will end up OT3).
Spoilers: DW Journey's End, TW Children of Earth, and all aired Firefly canon, including episodes and the movie Serenity.
Betas: larielromeniel, dameruth and canaana, though I did some editing after I got it back from them, so if I messed it up, it's not their fault!
Summary: After the death of the blue-suited Doctor, an immortal Rose uses the dimension cannon to teleport herself back into her home universe. Or should that be 'Verse? Crossover with Joss Whedon's Firefly.
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine. I promise to put everything back where I found it.
Author's Note: The title refers to the poem of the same name by Tennyson, an online version of which can be found here. I know, I know, it's another WIP, but this one grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and refused to let go.
Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10
Chapter 1
Mal eased himself onto a bar stool between a bald guy and a blonde girl and ordered a pint of the local ale, which wasn't bad as these things went. Better than a lot of local-made brews out here on the Rim; at least the crops here actually included hops. Bitter it might be, and a bit rough, but it cut the dust in his throat, and that was good enough for him.
Movement caught his eye, and he watched as the blonde girl beside him-couldn't have been more than twenty-five, tops-downed a shot and slammed the glass onto the bar next to six others. A glint of metal in the dim light made him notice the wide bracelet, sorta silvery in color, that surrounded her right wrist. Some sort of bigwig, he guessed, if she was wearing a PSC bracelet. Nobody messed with the Personal Safety Corporations. "Gimme another one," she said in an accent that reminded him of Badger.
"You from Dyton?" he asked before he could stop himself.
She glanced at him sideways. "Somethin' special about Dyton?" she asked as the barkeep poured another shot and set it in front of her. Strangely, after seven shots of some damn fine whiskey, she didn't slur her words, not a bit. Mal was aware enough of his own shortcomings to know that he'd have been weaving on the stool by that point, and he out-massed this girl by a fair amount.
"Not really," he answered. "Why?"
"'Cause you're not the first one to ask me that." Again she tilted her head back and swallowed the shot in one gulp, grimacing slightly. As well she might; smooth as silk that whiskey might be-he'd had it once or twice-but it was still 120 proof, and packed a hell of a punch.
He shrugged. "You sound like you might be, is all. Got a business acquaintance from there, and you sound a lot like him."
She swung around to face him, eyes wide, and he blinked, quickly revising his mental name for her. This was no girl, not if the depth of pain in her eyes was anything to go by. "You do?" she asked intently. "What's he look like?"
Strangely enough, little as he liked or respected Badger, he found himself loath to rat the little ferret out to a complete stranger. "Why d'you want to know?" he hedged.
"I'm lookin' for someone." Her gaze was intense. "Someone I used to know. A friend."
More than a friend, his instincts told him, but that was yet another reason not to tell her. "Why don't you describe this friend a'yours, and I'll tell you if I think I know him," he suggested. Seemed safe enough. If it wasn't Badger, no skin off his back; if it was, he'd lie to the woman and then let Badger know someone was after him, thereby gaining an owed favor. Nothing was worth more out here on the Rim than an owed favor, even between enemies. Which he and Badger were not, to be honest, but they weren't 'xactly pals, either.
The blonde searched his face for a moment, then said, "Tall. Skinny. Brown hair that seems to have a life of its own. Usually wears a pinstripe suit and a tie, with a brown overcoat. Sounds like me. Talks nonstop. Calls himself the Doctor." Those eyes seemed to bore into his, deep brown with odd little gold flecks in them. "Sound familiar?"
"'Fraid not, miss," he said honestly. Her face fell, and damn if he didn't feel bad for having to tell her so. "Sorry," he added.
One corner of her mouth quirked up in what looked like a concerted effort at a polite smile. "Nah, s'okay," she said, and turned back to the bar. "Long shot, I guess."
"It's a big system," he offered. "Maybe you should go in closer to the Core, talk to one of them big hospitals there. They're always looking for doctors. Might be someone would know where to find yours."
Another quirk of her mouth, a little more successful this time. "He's not that kind of Doctor," she said. Leaning her head in her hands, she rubbed her forehead with the tips of her fingers, then bent back, stretching. "I'm getting too old to sit on these backless things," she said ruefully.
Mal snorted. "I ain't one to gainsay a lady, 'specially not one I just met, but if you're old, I must be purely decrepit."
This time she did laugh. "I'm older than I look," she assured him.
"Old enough to hold your liquor, that's for sure." He gestured vaguely at the eight shot glasses lined up in front of her. "Never seen anyone do that and still talk like a sensible person."
"Never said I was sensible," she corrected, though there was a note of-something-in her voice that he didn't quite get. "I'm looking for a-friend-I got separated from. Long time ago, now. He's probably forgotten about me."
She touched the ring on her hand, and Mal startled; he hadn't seen that. He must be getting old to have missed something that obvious. He eased backwards, putting space between himself and the woman beside him. Never sit too close to a married woman, that was his motto. Well, unless you knew exactly where her husband was-hopefully by prior arrangement with the lady herself. "You and your husband looking together, then?" he asked.
"No," she said softly, one finger stroking over the gold. "He was a lot older than me, and he didn't…heal as well as I do. He died a few months ago. So I'm looking by myself. I know I'm getting close, but I just don't quite know where to find my friend."
"I'm sorry," Mal said just as quietly. Something inside him was twisting. Maybe he should help her. Maybe he should bring her back to Serenity, see if Inara had met this Doctor fella, or could find out something about him through her contacts.
Then he shook himself, though purely internally. What was he doing, thinking of bringing a complete stranger onto his boat? He already had Simon and River to worry about-though the two of them were pulling their own weight, he had to admit. But he couldn't afford to take on a charity case, not with their jobs of late becoming less and less legal. He couldn't risk her finding out what they did and perhaps reporting them to the Alliance.
She was silent for a long minute more, then she sighed and reached into her belt pouch, coming up with enough credits to pay for her drinks. She laid them on the bar. "Time for me to go, I think," she said. "Thanks for the chat."
She slid off the bar stool, picking up a long, black coat and sliding it on with practiced grace. That woman could give Zoë a run for her money, if she was minded to, Mal thought. He could tell just from the way she moved. She gave off that same sense of controlled power.
"What's your name?" he asked, before she stepped out of earshot.
She turned round and grinned at him. "What's yours?" she challenged.
"Mal. Cap'n Malcolm Reynolds. My boat's called Serenity."
Her smile widened. "Pleased to meet you, Captain Reynolds," she said. "I'm Rose."
Turning, she wriggled through the crowd of folks and disappeared.