Double Tongued (Kaylee/Dawn, PG13)
Title Double Tongued
Author Brutti ma buoni
Rating PG13
Pairing Kaylee/Dawn
Words 900
Prompt My femslash_minis entry, for Clockwork Hart, who wanted sugar, Serenity, starlight - and this probably isn't as happy as you were hoping for
When you’ve lived too long, you could despair. When you’re living forever, it would be easy. You see everyone doing the thing you can’t do, see them born (that never happened to you, and your mother never told you even her false memories of how that happened, so you have no history with birth), see them die (you laugh, because that’s never gonna be a thing for you), and know that as the Earth becomes Earth-That-Was, as the pattern of your starlight changes and the planets shift, as society splits and merges in lines you don’t recognise, as you have to learn Mandarin all over again goddammit- As all of that happens, you know it doesn’t matter the smallest bit, because you will go on.
Buffy should have killed you. She’s likely the only one that could stop your blood from flowing. But you left that option behind a long time - many, literal, moons ago. And now there’s just you, making out how you can. Meeting good people. Meeting awful people.
But mostly, you meet the good ones.
You’ve never been sure the Alliance is for you. But stability is useful when you live forever. You can’t be always learning new names, new politics. Your head’s too full of them already. And they’re all gone now. So grey and continuous has its attractions. Sometimes, you remember when safe was dull. When change was good. When sugar-pink and sparkly were your things. When you’d have known the Alliance were the bad guys, and you’d have known what to do.
You think all these things, the day you meet Miz Frye. She’s horrified that you exist, Alliance in this place, because she’s some kind of outworlder, some kind of criminal, and she’s neither sorry nor ashamed but also very not-keen on being arrested and executed, so there’s that. You have something in common already. You’re very, very tired of processing people to death.
She’s not exactly pretty but she almost is, and she would be with care and glazing with makeup, but you prefer her like this, in coveralls, with her hair barely brushed and signs of grease under her fingernails. She’s authentic, and a live. You’ve missed that. And she smiles sweeter than anyone you’ve seen in a long while. A long while. When it comes to knowing long, you’re really qualified. That’s a good smile.
She gives you her papers, and they may even be real, or at least she looks like a Kaywinnet Lee, and corrects you to ‘Kaylee’ real quick, like it’s a thing. Something real. She’s covering for something or someone or many of each, and you don’t probe too hard. You smile, but you have to be seen to be acting appropriately, because otherwise you’ll be spotted and that’ll do neither you nor Ms Frye no good.
So you ask her into the interview room, stern as you can, and only she can see the flicker of one eyelid that tells her it’s gonna be okay. She looks scared on the surface, and flickers back on the downlow, and you already know it’ll be good before you get into the room together. That she knows what you are and what you’re wanting, and she’ll play.
It’s bugged, of course, but nobody ever listens in live. Still, it behoves you to be cautious, and you talk, coded, about her work, and her ship (you note the name, Serenity, and its implications, and think how promising it sounds, to rebel in plain sight). Next up, the fare for passengers. “That sounds lucrative,” you say, passing credits across the desk. “I hope you declare it all and file movement reports.” “Sure,” she says, making change, “We’re very compliant.”
That’s an interesting choice of words, you think, even as your mouth talks onward, and the curve of hers tells you she knows it. How she knows that’s a thing you look for, you don’t know. But it is, and she does. You love to be in control. Maybe because you have so little say in your life. Maybe you just love to give pleasure, impose it where she can hardly take more, make her squirm for you, for a given value of her, in any century you’ve lived. Maybe it’s not about psychology at all.
She will, you can sense it. She wants it even here, in the belly of the tin-pot beast you've been riding for too long.
“I hope you’ll be leaving as scheduled,” you say.
She flickers at you, “Sure, Tuesday morning.” She writes on your palm, Sunday before 6, and you shiver with the nearness of escape, and the jangling of neurons at a desirable touch. You honestly couldn’t say which.
“Well,” you say, stuffed with official reluctance, “It appears all is in order. But we’ll certainly be monitoring you while you’re on world.”
“Sure,” she says. “I’m gonna go find a bar right now, if you wanna monitor me there.” It’s risky, such a plain invitation, but she pitches it well, a tone full of snark. She mouths Camera? and you shake your head, so just for a moment she unbuttons those brown mechanic’s coveralls, and shows you the real Kaylee, the pale skin in frilly pink, that she’ll likely not be showing at any bar in a city like this, but that she’s promising may be shared with you, later.
Sunday, before six. You have less than 36 hours of this present life to live, and then you’ll find a new one, out there in the black with the light of the stars for company. You don’t get a birth nor a death of your own, but rebirth is always possible.
It's time for a new life. Treat yourself.
***
Author Brutti ma buoni
Rating PG13
Pairing Kaylee/Dawn
Words 900
Prompt My femslash_minis entry, for Clockwork Hart, who wanted sugar, Serenity, starlight - and this probably isn't as happy as you were hoping for
When you’ve lived too long, you could despair. When you’re living forever, it would be easy. You see everyone doing the thing you can’t do, see them born (that never happened to you, and your mother never told you even her false memories of how that happened, so you have no history with birth), see them die (you laugh, because that’s never gonna be a thing for you), and know that as the Earth becomes Earth-That-Was, as the pattern of your starlight changes and the planets shift, as society splits and merges in lines you don’t recognise, as you have to learn Mandarin all over again goddammit- As all of that happens, you know it doesn’t matter the smallest bit, because you will go on.
Buffy should have killed you. She’s likely the only one that could stop your blood from flowing. But you left that option behind a long time - many, literal, moons ago. And now there’s just you, making out how you can. Meeting good people. Meeting awful people.
But mostly, you meet the good ones.
You’ve never been sure the Alliance is for you. But stability is useful when you live forever. You can’t be always learning new names, new politics. Your head’s too full of them already. And they’re all gone now. So grey and continuous has its attractions. Sometimes, you remember when safe was dull. When change was good. When sugar-pink and sparkly were your things. When you’d have known the Alliance were the bad guys, and you’d have known what to do.
You think all these things, the day you meet Miz Frye. She’s horrified that you exist, Alliance in this place, because she’s some kind of outworlder, some kind of criminal, and she’s neither sorry nor ashamed but also very not-keen on being arrested and executed, so there’s that. You have something in common already. You’re very, very tired of processing people to death.
She’s not exactly pretty but she almost is, and she would be with care and glazing with makeup, but you prefer her like this, in coveralls, with her hair barely brushed and signs of grease under her fingernails. She’s authentic, and a live. You’ve missed that. And she smiles sweeter than anyone you’ve seen in a long while. A long while. When it comes to knowing long, you’re really qualified. That’s a good smile.
She gives you her papers, and they may even be real, or at least she looks like a Kaywinnet Lee, and corrects you to ‘Kaylee’ real quick, like it’s a thing. Something real. She’s covering for something or someone or many of each, and you don’t probe too hard. You smile, but you have to be seen to be acting appropriately, because otherwise you’ll be spotted and that’ll do neither you nor Ms Frye no good.
So you ask her into the interview room, stern as you can, and only she can see the flicker of one eyelid that tells her it’s gonna be okay. She looks scared on the surface, and flickers back on the downlow, and you already know it’ll be good before you get into the room together. That she knows what you are and what you’re wanting, and she’ll play.
It’s bugged, of course, but nobody ever listens in live. Still, it behoves you to be cautious, and you talk, coded, about her work, and her ship (you note the name, Serenity, and its implications, and think how promising it sounds, to rebel in plain sight). Next up, the fare for passengers. “That sounds lucrative,” you say, passing credits across the desk. “I hope you declare it all and file movement reports.” “Sure,” she says, making change, “We’re very compliant.”
That’s an interesting choice of words, you think, even as your mouth talks onward, and the curve of hers tells you she knows it. How she knows that’s a thing you look for, you don’t know. But it is, and she does. You love to be in control. Maybe because you have so little say in your life. Maybe you just love to give pleasure, impose it where she can hardly take more, make her squirm for you, for a given value of her, in any century you’ve lived. Maybe it’s not about psychology at all.
She will, you can sense it. She wants it even here, in the belly of the tin-pot beast you've been riding for too long.
“I hope you’ll be leaving as scheduled,” you say.
She flickers at you, “Sure, Tuesday morning.” She writes on your palm, Sunday before 6, and you shiver with the nearness of escape, and the jangling of neurons at a desirable touch. You honestly couldn’t say which.
“Well,” you say, stuffed with official reluctance, “It appears all is in order. But we’ll certainly be monitoring you while you’re on world.”
“Sure,” she says. “I’m gonna go find a bar right now, if you wanna monitor me there.” It’s risky, such a plain invitation, but she pitches it well, a tone full of snark. She mouths Camera? and you shake your head, so just for a moment she unbuttons those brown mechanic’s coveralls, and shows you the real Kaylee, the pale skin in frilly pink, that she’ll likely not be showing at any bar in a city like this, but that she’s promising may be shared with you, later.
Sunday, before six. You have less than 36 hours of this present life to live, and then you’ll find a new one, out there in the black with the light of the stars for company. You don’t get a birth nor a death of your own, but rebirth is always possible.
It's time for a new life. Treat yourself.
***