Ficlets - AU prompts (Firefly; PG)
First two AU ficlets.
Title: The One Where River and Simon are Bank Robbers and Mal and Jayne are Tracking Them
For: sansets
Words: About 800
"Another day, another 10 000 000 platinum," Simon says as they walk into the bank. He leans on his cane, limping to just the right degree.
"I think 10 000 is more likely." River smiles at the security guard. He smiles right back at her. "It's a small bank."
Simon sighs. He can't help it. "At this rate -"
"-we'll never get to retire to a fabulous estate on Bellerophon," River finishes. "I know, I know." She's fishing around inside her bag, rummaging, rummaging, her frown finally smoothing out when she finds what she wants. "Ready?"
Simon nods, changing his grip on the cane. He's been ready since they walked through the door.
*
"How much they get?"
The clerk checks her notes. "About 15 000 platinum."
Mal doesn't get it. These two are slick - real slick - but they keep knocking off the small banks. Ain't like the big banks in this sector are so much more secure, and he can't figure why they don't go for the big hauls. He'd do it, if had that kind of planning mind.
Hell, Jayne'd do it if Mal even mentioned it in a half-assed way.
"That all you had?"
She nods. "Yes, sir. We're a small branch of Alliance United. Do you bank with us?" Her smile is broad, almost charming. Convincing. Plastic. Next thing probably she'll be talking about opening an account, signing forms, making good financial decisions and how it's all real easy here at Alliance United Bank (A Blue Sun Subsidiary) ™.
Mal turns away. "Nope. Jayne?"
Jayne smirks. "Naw. I got my own kind of bank."
"Jayne, spending your money on whores ain't exactly banking."
The smirk widens. "It's investin' with a bonus."
Mal turns back to the clerk. Her smile is gone, and her eyes have gone wide. She ain't too impressed, and Mal would bet 10 plat right now that Jayne's leering at her.
Jayne is a real pain in the ass, but some days - Mal kind of loves him. In that disgusted way.
*
"So far," River mutters, looking up from her notes, "we've amassed 1 903 487 in platinum. It's getting heavy." Her expression shifts to alarm. "Is the shuttle listing?"
Simon doesn't look up from his cane. The shockwave generator always needs to be recalibrated after each use. It's tedious. "Of course not."
"Oh. Good. We almost have enough!"
He nods. "Maybe we'll only have to knock over fifty more small banks and then we can -"
River's hand closes over his mouth. "Silly Simon. I think only 5 more! And then we'll be rich and we can buy that estate, and you can fix me!" Her breath is warm against his ear, and her hair falls around his face.
He'll never get used to how quickly she moves now. Simon half-smiles, holding himself very still. "You seem fine to me. Happy, focussed, a lot better than when you first woke up -"
She laughs, light and happy and carefree. "I mean you can fix the amoral, criminal, violent parts! The new parts of me! I know how you worry about it!" Her fingers are twisting in his hair now, lightly tugging.
Oh, right. That. "Yes. Perhaps I can."
She tugs at his hair again, and then steps away. Simon lets his shoulders relax.
"The security guard at the next one is going to put up a fight." Her smile is toothy, eager.
*
"So," Mal says, looking up from his pad, "you'd say she was about 90 pounds then? Long dark hair? Kind of pretty but 'with a little crazy about the eyes'?"
The security guard - bloodied around the face, missing teeth, and looking like he really hates his job - nods. And winces. "Maybe 100 pounds."
"And she did this. To you. Alone."
He nods again, and he ain't quite meeting Mal's eyes. "Yes."
Mal shrugs. "Ain't the first time I've seen it. Don't be feeling it messes with your masculinity none."
"'Cept that it does," Jayne murmurs, from behind him. Mal doesn't even have to look to know he's smirking. Again.
The security guard looks down at his feet.
*
"By the way," River says, after tallying their haul, "they're getting closer."
"Who?"
"The people tracking us. Two of them. One is very large. The other hates his job. Oh, and the Alliance."
Simon closes his eyes. It had only been a matter of time. "Will they catch us?"
"No!" she says, cheerfully, clapping her hands together. "But I am going to have to kill the security guard in our next job."
"River, we've talked about this before -"
She's laughing before he even finishes. "Simon, you're such a boob! You should have seen your face. I'm just teasing you. I promised - no killing the security guards."
Somehow, it's less reassuring than it should be. But Simon smiles at her - careful, supportive, trusting - anyway.
He wonders if she's fooled. He certainly isn't.
End
Title: The One Where Simon's a Stripper
For: wildannuette
Words: About 1000
The thing about stripping was that it made Simon a lot of money. Fast. His first night at the club he'd been a little astonished with the amount of money thrown at him during his five minutes on stage.
"Impressive," Wash had said to him as Simon had slipped back stage. He was already dressed in his pilot uniform - bright white and gold, with tacky (decorative) buttons.
Simon didn't envy him the outfit. He preferred his naughty nurse gig. "Thanks," he muttered, still trying to catch his breath. "Frankly, I'm relieved. The hourly wage here is ridiculous, I took years of professional dance and I'm glad that someone appreciates my skills enough to -"
Wash looked down at Simon's fistful of cash. At least, that's what Simon assumed he was looking at.
"I wasn't talking about the money," he said, his face completely serious.
Oh. Right. Not looking at the money. Oh. "Um -"
Wash's expression cracked into a wide, slightly mocking grin. "Welcome to the job, kid."
And then he slapped Simon's ass.
Simon resisted the urge to hold out his hand and say, "Five platinum, please."
Barely.
*
The club had regulars, Simon figured that out quickly enough. There were the angry mercenary types, the brooding, moody types, the creepy 'I'll just sit in my dark corner' types, and the ones who were just there for a good time.
Some were so regular he even learned their names. Or what they gave as names.
He would have figured Jayne was one of the angry mercenary types. Turned out he got drunk, happy and generous. He was Simon's favourite type of customer, even if once he nearly took out Simon's eye by throwing a 10-plat coin instead of paper money.
The club had instituted a rule about that, after. Simon still didn't understand why they'd never had to before.
Zoe was one of the angry mercenary types; she always sat at the edge of the stage, steadily drinking, drinking, drinking. She never smiled. But she sat up straighter when Wash came on stage, and Wash always came back grinning when she was around.
"Paid me 30 plat for a lap-dance, once," he said. "Thirty plat! Thought she might punch me out after, but I figured it was worth it."
Of course, the customers knew better than to punch any of the dancers - or touch them at all. If they did, Inara had Kaylee turf them out sooner than Simon could say, "Ow, my eye."
He still didn't understand how Kaylee could wrestle the cranky, bulky types out the door, but Wash was adamant. "She can be scary. Just look at her!"
Simon looked. She smiled over at him and gave him a tiny wave, bouncing on her feet a little.
He didn't understand.
"You will one day," Wash promised. "Be afraid."
He looked back at Kaylee and she waved again. Her shirt was pink and had a fuzzy bunny on the front. There was a flower - yellow, a little tattered, but cheerful and bright in the gloomy club - tucked into her hair.
"Afraid," Wash said again, low and dark and drawn out.
*
Sometimes the regulars would talk while getting a lap-dance. Jayne was one of the talky ones. "How'd you get to strippin'?" he'd ask, and, "You ever do a double act?" and, "How come yer so good on the pole?"
Simon was fairly certain that last question wasn't a double entendre, but he never quite knew.
But he answered. "The money is good," he'd say, and leave out the part about being disowned and needing to get by. Customers didn't need to know. And, "Sometimes, on Saturdays. When we get really busy. With Wash." And, "I took dance lessons. And I practice."
Sometimes Jayne would look interested, and maybe look like he was going to ask more. So Simon would grind down a little lower and lean closer and maybe brush his mouth against Jayne's hair.
It always got him more money, after. And surprisingly, Jayne smelled good.
Mal was one of the quiet ones. Didn't ask questions, didn't do much except sit there like maybe he wasn't sure he should be there at all.
"Thanks," he'd mutter after, and then go back to watching Zoe while she drank and watched the stage.
Simon would grin. "Any time," he'd always say, and he meant it. Mal had a nice ass, and he tipped well. Not as well as Jayne, but then again, he didn't seem to get as drunk as Jayne.
*
Working in the club was shameful. Horrifying. If his old friends could see him, they'd be shocked, disgusted. Simon could only imagine the stories that would circulate - from him stripping, to claims that he was a street whore, to convoluted stories about how he'd become addicted to stims, alcohol, Mudder's Milk, painkillers, risky sex, and possibly spanking.
"They don't sound like real nice people," Kaylee said, patting his hand. "Bet you're better off without 'em. Anyhow," she grinned, "I heard rumours it weren't the spanking you liked so much as it was the gags."
He choked on his (watered down) drink, and his face went hot. Too hot. "What - I - where did you - I don't even - not since I started working here - has - Wash is making stories up again and -" he stopped when he realised she was laughing.
"Simon," she said, wiping at her eyes, "you are so gorram easy."
Oh. Oh. Right. "I suppose I am."
"Don't worry about it. "Well get it beat right out of you soon enough." Suddenly, she put down her drink. "Ruttin' hell."
"What?"
Jerking her chin to his left, she said, "Fight. Gotta go deal with it."
He watched as she marched over there, elbowing her way through the crowd. When she got to the fight -
"Son of a bitch," Simon muttered.
"Told you," Wash said, loud in his ear.
Simon jumped. "Where did you - weren't you just on the stage and - oh, forget it." He didn't care. He was too busy watching Kaylee work.
Sometimes, Simon thought he might love this club. Just a little bit. In all its grimy, low-rent, stealth-stripper, chatty customer, smiling-bouncy bouncer glory.
End.
Title: The One Where River and Simon are Bank Robbers and Mal and Jayne are Tracking Them
For: sansets
Words: About 800
"Another day, another 10 000 000 platinum," Simon says as they walk into the bank. He leans on his cane, limping to just the right degree.
"I think 10 000 is more likely." River smiles at the security guard. He smiles right back at her. "It's a small bank."
Simon sighs. He can't help it. "At this rate -"
"-we'll never get to retire to a fabulous estate on Bellerophon," River finishes. "I know, I know." She's fishing around inside her bag, rummaging, rummaging, her frown finally smoothing out when she finds what she wants. "Ready?"
Simon nods, changing his grip on the cane. He's been ready since they walked through the door.
*
"How much they get?"
The clerk checks her notes. "About 15 000 platinum."
Mal doesn't get it. These two are slick - real slick - but they keep knocking off the small banks. Ain't like the big banks in this sector are so much more secure, and he can't figure why they don't go for the big hauls. He'd do it, if had that kind of planning mind.
Hell, Jayne'd do it if Mal even mentioned it in a half-assed way.
"That all you had?"
She nods. "Yes, sir. We're a small branch of Alliance United. Do you bank with us?" Her smile is broad, almost charming. Convincing. Plastic. Next thing probably she'll be talking about opening an account, signing forms, making good financial decisions and how it's all real easy here at Alliance United Bank (A Blue Sun Subsidiary) ™.
Mal turns away. "Nope. Jayne?"
Jayne smirks. "Naw. I got my own kind of bank."
"Jayne, spending your money on whores ain't exactly banking."
The smirk widens. "It's investin' with a bonus."
Mal turns back to the clerk. Her smile is gone, and her eyes have gone wide. She ain't too impressed, and Mal would bet 10 plat right now that Jayne's leering at her.
Jayne is a real pain in the ass, but some days - Mal kind of loves him. In that disgusted way.
*
"So far," River mutters, looking up from her notes, "we've amassed 1 903 487 in platinum. It's getting heavy." Her expression shifts to alarm. "Is the shuttle listing?"
Simon doesn't look up from his cane. The shockwave generator always needs to be recalibrated after each use. It's tedious. "Of course not."
"Oh. Good. We almost have enough!"
He nods. "Maybe we'll only have to knock over fifty more small banks and then we can -"
River's hand closes over his mouth. "Silly Simon. I think only 5 more! And then we'll be rich and we can buy that estate, and you can fix me!" Her breath is warm against his ear, and her hair falls around his face.
He'll never get used to how quickly she moves now. Simon half-smiles, holding himself very still. "You seem fine to me. Happy, focussed, a lot better than when you first woke up -"
She laughs, light and happy and carefree. "I mean you can fix the amoral, criminal, violent parts! The new parts of me! I know how you worry about it!" Her fingers are twisting in his hair now, lightly tugging.
Oh, right. That. "Yes. Perhaps I can."
She tugs at his hair again, and then steps away. Simon lets his shoulders relax.
"The security guard at the next one is going to put up a fight." Her smile is toothy, eager.
*
"So," Mal says, looking up from his pad, "you'd say she was about 90 pounds then? Long dark hair? Kind of pretty but 'with a little crazy about the eyes'?"
The security guard - bloodied around the face, missing teeth, and looking like he really hates his job - nods. And winces. "Maybe 100 pounds."
"And she did this. To you. Alone."
He nods again, and he ain't quite meeting Mal's eyes. "Yes."
Mal shrugs. "Ain't the first time I've seen it. Don't be feeling it messes with your masculinity none."
"'Cept that it does," Jayne murmurs, from behind him. Mal doesn't even have to look to know he's smirking. Again.
The security guard looks down at his feet.
*
"By the way," River says, after tallying their haul, "they're getting closer."
"Who?"
"The people tracking us. Two of them. One is very large. The other hates his job. Oh, and the Alliance."
Simon closes his eyes. It had only been a matter of time. "Will they catch us?"
"No!" she says, cheerfully, clapping her hands together. "But I am going to have to kill the security guard in our next job."
"River, we've talked about this before -"
She's laughing before he even finishes. "Simon, you're such a boob! You should have seen your face. I'm just teasing you. I promised - no killing the security guards."
Somehow, it's less reassuring than it should be. But Simon smiles at her - careful, supportive, trusting - anyway.
He wonders if she's fooled. He certainly isn't.
End
Title: The One Where Simon's a Stripper
For: wildannuette
Words: About 1000
The thing about stripping was that it made Simon a lot of money. Fast. His first night at the club he'd been a little astonished with the amount of money thrown at him during his five minutes on stage.
"Impressive," Wash had said to him as Simon had slipped back stage. He was already dressed in his pilot uniform - bright white and gold, with tacky (decorative) buttons.
Simon didn't envy him the outfit. He preferred his naughty nurse gig. "Thanks," he muttered, still trying to catch his breath. "Frankly, I'm relieved. The hourly wage here is ridiculous, I took years of professional dance and I'm glad that someone appreciates my skills enough to -"
Wash looked down at Simon's fistful of cash. At least, that's what Simon assumed he was looking at.
"I wasn't talking about the money," he said, his face completely serious.
Oh. Right. Not looking at the money. Oh. "Um -"
Wash's expression cracked into a wide, slightly mocking grin. "Welcome to the job, kid."
And then he slapped Simon's ass.
Simon resisted the urge to hold out his hand and say, "Five platinum, please."
Barely.
*
The club had regulars, Simon figured that out quickly enough. There were the angry mercenary types, the brooding, moody types, the creepy 'I'll just sit in my dark corner' types, and the ones who were just there for a good time.
Some were so regular he even learned their names. Or what they gave as names.
He would have figured Jayne was one of the angry mercenary types. Turned out he got drunk, happy and generous. He was Simon's favourite type of customer, even if once he nearly took out Simon's eye by throwing a 10-plat coin instead of paper money.
The club had instituted a rule about that, after. Simon still didn't understand why they'd never had to before.
Zoe was one of the angry mercenary types; she always sat at the edge of the stage, steadily drinking, drinking, drinking. She never smiled. But she sat up straighter when Wash came on stage, and Wash always came back grinning when she was around.
"Paid me 30 plat for a lap-dance, once," he said. "Thirty plat! Thought she might punch me out after, but I figured it was worth it."
Of course, the customers knew better than to punch any of the dancers - or touch them at all. If they did, Inara had Kaylee turf them out sooner than Simon could say, "Ow, my eye."
He still didn't understand how Kaylee could wrestle the cranky, bulky types out the door, but Wash was adamant. "She can be scary. Just look at her!"
Simon looked. She smiled over at him and gave him a tiny wave, bouncing on her feet a little.
He didn't understand.
"You will one day," Wash promised. "Be afraid."
He looked back at Kaylee and she waved again. Her shirt was pink and had a fuzzy bunny on the front. There was a flower - yellow, a little tattered, but cheerful and bright in the gloomy club - tucked into her hair.
"Afraid," Wash said again, low and dark and drawn out.
*
Sometimes the regulars would talk while getting a lap-dance. Jayne was one of the talky ones. "How'd you get to strippin'?" he'd ask, and, "You ever do a double act?" and, "How come yer so good on the pole?"
Simon was fairly certain that last question wasn't a double entendre, but he never quite knew.
But he answered. "The money is good," he'd say, and leave out the part about being disowned and needing to get by. Customers didn't need to know. And, "Sometimes, on Saturdays. When we get really busy. With Wash." And, "I took dance lessons. And I practice."
Sometimes Jayne would look interested, and maybe look like he was going to ask more. So Simon would grind down a little lower and lean closer and maybe brush his mouth against Jayne's hair.
It always got him more money, after. And surprisingly, Jayne smelled good.
Mal was one of the quiet ones. Didn't ask questions, didn't do much except sit there like maybe he wasn't sure he should be there at all.
"Thanks," he'd mutter after, and then go back to watching Zoe while she drank and watched the stage.
Simon would grin. "Any time," he'd always say, and he meant it. Mal had a nice ass, and he tipped well. Not as well as Jayne, but then again, he didn't seem to get as drunk as Jayne.
*
Working in the club was shameful. Horrifying. If his old friends could see him, they'd be shocked, disgusted. Simon could only imagine the stories that would circulate - from him stripping, to claims that he was a street whore, to convoluted stories about how he'd become addicted to stims, alcohol, Mudder's Milk, painkillers, risky sex, and possibly spanking.
"They don't sound like real nice people," Kaylee said, patting his hand. "Bet you're better off without 'em. Anyhow," she grinned, "I heard rumours it weren't the spanking you liked so much as it was the gags."
He choked on his (watered down) drink, and his face went hot. Too hot. "What - I - where did you - I don't even - not since I started working here - has - Wash is making stories up again and -" he stopped when he realised she was laughing.
"Simon," she said, wiping at her eyes, "you are so gorram easy."
Oh. Oh. Right. "I suppose I am."
"Don't worry about it. "Well get it beat right out of you soon enough." Suddenly, she put down her drink. "Ruttin' hell."
"What?"
Jerking her chin to his left, she said, "Fight. Gotta go deal with it."
He watched as she marched over there, elbowing her way through the crowd. When she got to the fight -
"Son of a bitch," Simon muttered.
"Told you," Wash said, loud in his ear.
Simon jumped. "Where did you - weren't you just on the stage and - oh, forget it." He didn't care. He was too busy watching Kaylee work.
Sometimes, Simon thought he might love this club. Just a little bit. In all its grimy, low-rent, stealth-stripper, chatty customer, smiling-bouncy bouncer glory.
End.