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I've posted this to a pair of Firefly fic lists, and might as well post to my own journal as well. I mostly blame agentotter for this, as well as the creative soul at www.heresluck.net for her wonderful fanvid of the same title I'm blatantly stealing here. I'm pretty new to posting fanfic to LJ, and new to media fandom too, so be merciless with me in regards to critique. I'll post chapters as I finish them up, but can't promise as to how often that will be, considering the general holiday madness.
Firefly Fic: Thistledown Tears
Author: bbikitten
Rating: Adult
Crossover Firefly/Deadwood
Timeline/Spoilers: AU, pre-film
Summary: The crew of the Serenity follow an honest job to Deadwood, and find the violent town difficult to escape…
Credits: The good ship Serenity are her crew © Joss Whedon (Damn you, Joss!). Deadwood and her inhabitants © David Milch & HBO. “Thistledown Tears” lyrics by Jeffrey Foucault; thanks as well to agentotter for inspiration and heresluck for her wonderful fanvid "Thistledown Tears." Original song "Thistledown Tears" © the marvelous Jeffrey Foucault.
~ ~ ~
don't cry your thistledown tears
the flood and the fire, they both come clear
the time to wrestle the angel is here
the night is quickly passing
~ ~ ~
The cold rain and a bottle of gutrot that passed for backwater whisky were all of the company Mal could tolerate. He stood motionless save for an occasional succor from the bottle, his back to the town below and his bare head bent against the rain. Gusts of wind tugged at his coat, but the burn of whisky down his throat kept the weather at bay.
The settlers had chosen a deforested hillside overlooking their camp for the graveyard, although Mal had been in Deadwood now long enough to suspect that the badlands beyond hid more bodies than those cared for enough by someone to be to planted here. Most of the gravestones were wooden markers, some with names carved upon them, other simply wooden sticks lashed together in the form of an empty cross. Among those weathered markers, the flicker of movement and the flash jewel-rich color that made up Inara’s headstone were as seductive as a willow-o-wisp in the forest.
They had buried her before dusk, with the Shepard saying the necessary words, and those of the rest of them who could shed their tears doing so. Mal had kept his own grief tightly bottled, too aware of their vulnerability on that bare hillside, the whole of his crew clustered together in an invitation to any rifle. He had hurried them all back aboard the ship as soon as the last shovel of dirt was laid in place.
This miserable hillside would not have been Inara’s preference for eternity. Night still hid the worst of the view for a few hours yet, but Mal knew it wouldn’t improve with the dawn. Deadwood was a filthy place, with the streets all mud and the buildings all of raw, unfinished timber. Plumbing was a contested, pinching seat in a stinking latrine, if you could find one. Slops and chamber pots were cast in the main street, to be churned into the mud along with the dung from the horses and oxen. Even the lanterns and torches which lit the place at night left a dirty smudge on an eye.
There was a whisper of sound behind him; Mal began to turn, reaching after his gun even as his ears recognized Zoe’s step. He stared at her bleakly, letting the pistol slowly back into its holster.
“Told you to stay with the boat,” he said.
“Yes sir,” she answered, but there was nothing repentant in those words. Zoe stood just there beyond his shoulder, a dark angel in a drover’s oilcloth, beads of rain dripping from the brim of her hat. She asked no questions, just stood her ground and waited.
He took another swallow of whisky, shifting again to face the grave. For a moment, an abyss at his feet seemed to gape wide, threatening to topple him. Raw as it was, the whisky wasn’t strong enough to chase away the feel of Inara’s dead weight in his arms, or the stink of blood and burned flesh from his nose. Her death seemed more real to him now, at this moment, than it had when he and his crew had been burying her. He could wrestle with it, pin it down, know it as a truth and a certainty - but somehow, the knowing of a thing and the **feeling** of it were two different beasts. Seen small and on repeat like the fragments of song, the flickering hologram of her gravestone was a mockery of Inara’s real beauty. He wanted the smash the things to pieces - one good kick would do the job. But then even the ghost of her would be lost to him.
The rain continued to fall around them, drumming a soft patter against the turned earth and mud. For a moment, a fresh gust of wind brought the tang of woodsmoke up from the town, and with that was a distant, off-tune tinkle of the Gem’s saloon piano.
Behind him, Mal felt Zoe’s presence, steady and fixed and as still as the one of the grave markers. Whatever she was thinking and feeling, she kept it to herself with that peaceful quiet that a damnfool could well mistake for tranquility, just before it killed him. She made no demands, but her silence was much a call to action as it was a comfort. He took another pull from the bottle, hardly feeling what he had drunk so far. He was determined not to speak, knowing it was his place as captain to remain in control of himself before his crew. Even before Zoe, when she surely knew him better than he knew his own self. But his determination failed him, as he felt himself crashing against her still silence. “I don’t want to leave Inara here,” he confessed. “Not in this rain.”
“Yes, sir,” Zoe answered, gentle-like, as if her captain’s words made any sense whatsoever.
He raised the bottle, and found to his surprise that it had gone empty. The rain continued with a fresh swirl of wind, bitter cold to the exposed skin of a man’s hands and face. Mal tossed the bottle aside, as far as he could fling it, and was rewarded with the distant shatter. He took a deep breath then, gathering in what might prove his last sight of Inara’s smile and dancing eyes. Even washed-out as the headstone projection was, he gathered the sight to him and wished to cradle it, as he had the empty, tortured shell of her. Then he closed his eyes, swallowed down the heartbreak, and turned to meet the waiting face of retribution.
“That man Swearingen is responsible,” he growled, and his words were met by Zoe’s shallow nod of agreement. “It’s time to go and collect.”
~ ~ ~
I'm already half done with the next part, but just gotta say, for the record... what chatty bastards these guys are! ;) Hard to get them to DO anything, they just want to throw out the snark...
Firefly Fic: Thistledown Tears
Author: bbikitten
Rating: Adult
Crossover Firefly/Deadwood
Timeline/Spoilers: AU, pre-film
Summary: The crew of the Serenity follow an honest job to Deadwood, and find the violent town difficult to escape…
Credits: The good ship Serenity are her crew © Joss Whedon (Damn you, Joss!). Deadwood and her inhabitants © David Milch & HBO. “Thistledown Tears” lyrics by Jeffrey Foucault; thanks as well to agentotter for inspiration and heresluck for her wonderful fanvid "Thistledown Tears." Original song "Thistledown Tears" © the marvelous Jeffrey Foucault.
~ ~ ~
don't cry your thistledown tears
the flood and the fire, they both come clear
the time to wrestle the angel is here
the night is quickly passing
~ ~ ~
The cold rain and a bottle of gutrot that passed for backwater whisky were all of the company Mal could tolerate. He stood motionless save for an occasional succor from the bottle, his back to the town below and his bare head bent against the rain. Gusts of wind tugged at his coat, but the burn of whisky down his throat kept the weather at bay.
The settlers had chosen a deforested hillside overlooking their camp for the graveyard, although Mal had been in Deadwood now long enough to suspect that the badlands beyond hid more bodies than those cared for enough by someone to be to planted here. Most of the gravestones were wooden markers, some with names carved upon them, other simply wooden sticks lashed together in the form of an empty cross. Among those weathered markers, the flicker of movement and the flash jewel-rich color that made up Inara’s headstone were as seductive as a willow-o-wisp in the forest.
They had buried her before dusk, with the Shepard saying the necessary words, and those of the rest of them who could shed their tears doing so. Mal had kept his own grief tightly bottled, too aware of their vulnerability on that bare hillside, the whole of his crew clustered together in an invitation to any rifle. He had hurried them all back aboard the ship as soon as the last shovel of dirt was laid in place.
This miserable hillside would not have been Inara’s preference for eternity. Night still hid the worst of the view for a few hours yet, but Mal knew it wouldn’t improve with the dawn. Deadwood was a filthy place, with the streets all mud and the buildings all of raw, unfinished timber. Plumbing was a contested, pinching seat in a stinking latrine, if you could find one. Slops and chamber pots were cast in the main street, to be churned into the mud along with the dung from the horses and oxen. Even the lanterns and torches which lit the place at night left a dirty smudge on an eye.
There was a whisper of sound behind him; Mal began to turn, reaching after his gun even as his ears recognized Zoe’s step. He stared at her bleakly, letting the pistol slowly back into its holster.
“Told you to stay with the boat,” he said.
“Yes sir,” she answered, but there was nothing repentant in those words. Zoe stood just there beyond his shoulder, a dark angel in a drover’s oilcloth, beads of rain dripping from the brim of her hat. She asked no questions, just stood her ground and waited.
He took another swallow of whisky, shifting again to face the grave. For a moment, an abyss at his feet seemed to gape wide, threatening to topple him. Raw as it was, the whisky wasn’t strong enough to chase away the feel of Inara’s dead weight in his arms, or the stink of blood and burned flesh from his nose. Her death seemed more real to him now, at this moment, than it had when he and his crew had been burying her. He could wrestle with it, pin it down, know it as a truth and a certainty - but somehow, the knowing of a thing and the **feeling** of it were two different beasts. Seen small and on repeat like the fragments of song, the flickering hologram of her gravestone was a mockery of Inara’s real beauty. He wanted the smash the things to pieces - one good kick would do the job. But then even the ghost of her would be lost to him.
The rain continued to fall around them, drumming a soft patter against the turned earth and mud. For a moment, a fresh gust of wind brought the tang of woodsmoke up from the town, and with that was a distant, off-tune tinkle of the Gem’s saloon piano.
Behind him, Mal felt Zoe’s presence, steady and fixed and as still as the one of the grave markers. Whatever she was thinking and feeling, she kept it to herself with that peaceful quiet that a damnfool could well mistake for tranquility, just before it killed him. She made no demands, but her silence was much a call to action as it was a comfort. He took another pull from the bottle, hardly feeling what he had drunk so far. He was determined not to speak, knowing it was his place as captain to remain in control of himself before his crew. Even before Zoe, when she surely knew him better than he knew his own self. But his determination failed him, as he felt himself crashing against her still silence. “I don’t want to leave Inara here,” he confessed. “Not in this rain.”
“Yes, sir,” Zoe answered, gentle-like, as if her captain’s words made any sense whatsoever.
He raised the bottle, and found to his surprise that it had gone empty. The rain continued with a fresh swirl of wind, bitter cold to the exposed skin of a man’s hands and face. Mal tossed the bottle aside, as far as he could fling it, and was rewarded with the distant shatter. He took a deep breath then, gathering in what might prove his last sight of Inara’s smile and dancing eyes. Even washed-out as the headstone projection was, he gathered the sight to him and wished to cradle it, as he had the empty, tortured shell of her. Then he closed his eyes, swallowed down the heartbreak, and turned to meet the waiting face of retribution.
“That man Swearingen is responsible,” he growled, and his words were met by Zoe’s shallow nod of agreement. “It’s time to go and collect.”
~ ~ ~
I'm already half done with the next part, but just gotta say, for the record... what chatty bastards these guys are! ;) Hard to get them to DO anything, they just want to throw out the snark...