Chin up, soldier on
Reposting my four comment fics from the Doomed Ships ficathon. Reasonably PG13, though Faith may tip towards R...
Fratchety
Mal thinks the word is fratchety. Kaylee said it once, and he knew then it was right for the way Inara rubs him wrong.
Just right for the irritation she causes in him. Pass by her shuttle, he’s twitching with it. Smell her scent in the air; see Kaylee or River with some new furbelow from her endless silky stores; make a stopover near the Core to favour a topnotch client... Whatever it may be, Inara makes him fratchety.
When a man’s ship ain’t his sanctuary, the ‘verse has gone all askew and crumply. Mal doesn’t know how to soothe it smooth again.
Sometimes, he thinks Inara may have the answer. But he’s never gonna ask her the question.
*
Temptress
Woman is an evil thing. A dark and dangerous thing, shouldn’t be on shipboard at all. Brings bad luck even when she’s not a naturally cussed ill-wishing witch.
Mal won’t say as much to Zoe, of course. Nor Kaylee. Nor the Ambassador and the mooncalf.
But he knows he’s right. Better off without her aboard is right. Liar girl, thief, faker and cheat. Tried to kill’em all. Ain’t a court in the verse would uphold their wedding vows with that evidence of spousal affection.
Now and then, though, she shakes him up.
Hey hubby. Passing by Andromeda if you wanted an adventure. I’ll leave my weapons home if you promise to bring yours.
Ignore Wash’s sniggers in the cockpit; scrub it off the Cortex and pretend it never happened.
From Doubleshot: Sweetheart, I miss you. Got a fine hot meal for you if you’ll do me an eensy favour with some wranglers here.
From a moon round Hestia: Dear husband, I found a silver cache here. You want in?
From the Georgia system: Mal? I need your help.
Damned woman knows his weaknesses.
*
Not Mechanical
“I can’t help but notice you’ve put your fist through my wall.”
“Shut up and get in here.”
“You’re distressed. I would be taking advantage.”
“No shit. I’ve been in the slammer three years, Wes. I’d be riding the shower head if you weren’t available.”
Her broken fists and bruised lips bleed on him as she rides his non-plastic self to unstoppable completion. Encouraging him to thrust deeper, bite harder, make her feel alive as the steaming water pounds down. No more mechanical warrior, this Faith.
He needs this too.
Too long since he’s given way to himself. Sleeping with the enemy was never this unguarded.
After, he releases her reluctantly, expecting her to run. But she’s grown, this girl he hardly knows.
“Rough day coming, right? Need our beauty sleep, Wes.” She tumbles into his bed, tousled, damp and still bloody, unexpectedly inviting as she messes up his bachelor neatness.
When she’s gone, her imprint will remain on more than his damaged bathroom wall.
*
Gentlemanly Pursuits
I need to not be alone tonight.
With that pleadingly split infinitive, she had him. What gentleman could resist a good deed that resulted in warm armfuls of glorious Cordelia, grammatical gaffes or no?
Glorious was the word for her. What a hell of a night, after all the horrors of the day before.
Now, the morning after, Wesley was waiting for nemesis. Dismissal. Crushing embarrassment. Some carelessly-Cordy comment that would put him low in her galaxy of past lovers. (Now that was paranoia; she wouldn’t be so tacky, and she hadn’t such a sleazy past). Disappointment.
Her bare hip stirred under his hand, her breath hitched and muffled against his chest.
“Mmmm, morning Wesley.”
“Good morning. Are you well?”
“I’m sleepy. Can’t think why that might be.” She was smiling. Still smiling. “You were really thorough.”
He blushed. Thorough was good, was it not?
“I don’t want to impose,” she said. (Impose? Seriously, Cordelia? Was she mocking him? Her wonderfully wide Cordy-smile was rich and genuine, though.) “But I really don’t want to be alone tonight, either. Does that sound okay?”
Finally, he started to relax. “I might just be able to help you in your hour of need. A gentleman does what he can.”
*
Fratchety
Mal thinks the word is fratchety. Kaylee said it once, and he knew then it was right for the way Inara rubs him wrong.
Just right for the irritation she causes in him. Pass by her shuttle, he’s twitching with it. Smell her scent in the air; see Kaylee or River with some new furbelow from her endless silky stores; make a stopover near the Core to favour a topnotch client... Whatever it may be, Inara makes him fratchety.
When a man’s ship ain’t his sanctuary, the ‘verse has gone all askew and crumply. Mal doesn’t know how to soothe it smooth again.
Sometimes, he thinks Inara may have the answer. But he’s never gonna ask her the question.
*
Temptress
Woman is an evil thing. A dark and dangerous thing, shouldn’t be on shipboard at all. Brings bad luck even when she’s not a naturally cussed ill-wishing witch.
Mal won’t say as much to Zoe, of course. Nor Kaylee. Nor the Ambassador and the mooncalf.
But he knows he’s right. Better off without her aboard is right. Liar girl, thief, faker and cheat. Tried to kill’em all. Ain’t a court in the verse would uphold their wedding vows with that evidence of spousal affection.
Now and then, though, she shakes him up.
Hey hubby. Passing by Andromeda if you wanted an adventure. I’ll leave my weapons home if you promise to bring yours.
Ignore Wash’s sniggers in the cockpit; scrub it off the Cortex and pretend it never happened.
From Doubleshot: Sweetheart, I miss you. Got a fine hot meal for you if you’ll do me an eensy favour with some wranglers here.
From a moon round Hestia: Dear husband, I found a silver cache here. You want in?
From the Georgia system: Mal? I need your help.
Damned woman knows his weaknesses.
*
Not Mechanical
“I can’t help but notice you’ve put your fist through my wall.”
“Shut up and get in here.”
“You’re distressed. I would be taking advantage.”
“No shit. I’ve been in the slammer three years, Wes. I’d be riding the shower head if you weren’t available.”
Her broken fists and bruised lips bleed on him as she rides his non-plastic self to unstoppable completion. Encouraging him to thrust deeper, bite harder, make her feel alive as the steaming water pounds down. No more mechanical warrior, this Faith.
He needs this too.
Too long since he’s given way to himself. Sleeping with the enemy was never this unguarded.
After, he releases her reluctantly, expecting her to run. But she’s grown, this girl he hardly knows.
“Rough day coming, right? Need our beauty sleep, Wes.” She tumbles into his bed, tousled, damp and still bloody, unexpectedly inviting as she messes up his bachelor neatness.
When she’s gone, her imprint will remain on more than his damaged bathroom wall.
*
Gentlemanly Pursuits
I need to not be alone tonight.
With that pleadingly split infinitive, she had him. What gentleman could resist a good deed that resulted in warm armfuls of glorious Cordelia, grammatical gaffes or no?
Glorious was the word for her. What a hell of a night, after all the horrors of the day before.
Now, the morning after, Wesley was waiting for nemesis. Dismissal. Crushing embarrassment. Some carelessly-Cordy comment that would put him low in her galaxy of past lovers. (Now that was paranoia; she wouldn’t be so tacky, and she hadn’t such a sleazy past). Disappointment.
Her bare hip stirred under his hand, her breath hitched and muffled against his chest.
“Mmmm, morning Wesley.”
“Good morning. Are you well?”
“I’m sleepy. Can’t think why that might be.” She was smiling. Still smiling. “You were really thorough.”
He blushed. Thorough was good, was it not?
“I don’t want to impose,” she said. (Impose? Seriously, Cordelia? Was she mocking him? Her wonderfully wide Cordy-smile was rich and genuine, though.) “But I really don’t want to be alone tonight, either. Does that sound okay?”
Finally, he started to relax. “I might just be able to help you in your hour of need. A gentleman does what he can.”
*