Drabbletag 7 - Firefly: Inara/River, Inside
Title: Transmission
Fandom: Firefly
Pairing: Inara/River
Rating: PG
Prompt: Firefly: Inara/River - inside (from Drabbletag 1)
Word count: 250
Summary: both of them see too much of others
The first time Inara sees her after Miranda, River is lying prone on a steel catwalk above the cargo bay, her arms dangling over the sides and her hair falling in tangles across her face.
"You don't like it at all, do you?" she says, in lilting rhythm. "People seeing inside you."
She somersaults over the railing to land in front of Inara, mechanically graceful. "All that complicated machinery no one is supposed to see."
"No," Inara says. "I don't."
"Sorry," River says. "I try not to. Can't turn it off."
"I know."
"Do you hate me for it?" she asks.
"No."
"I don't hate you either."
Inara is good in her own way at seeing inside of people. She reads in the lines of River's body the tension of a string pulled back - instrument plucked or bow drawn to the point of snapping.
"I know," she says, and takes River's face between her hands, brushes her hair back, feels her tilt her head into the touch. "I do know."
And she does - not the cypher of River's brain but the simpler language of fear and need inscribed in the body. Inara draws her down to sit on the floor amid the dust and packing crates, and River hums in contentment - eyes half-closed, throat and clavicle exposed beneath a ragged knit sweater, mind fallen almost quiet. So frail, if you ignore the danger.
Inara ignores nothing. Still, she lets River lean against her - mind open, unafraid, offering what she can give.
Fandom: Firefly
Pairing: Inara/River
Rating: PG
Prompt: Firefly: Inara/River - inside (from Drabbletag 1)
Word count: 250
Summary: both of them see too much of others
The first time Inara sees her after Miranda, River is lying prone on a steel catwalk above the cargo bay, her arms dangling over the sides and her hair falling in tangles across her face.
"You don't like it at all, do you?" she says, in lilting rhythm. "People seeing inside you."
She somersaults over the railing to land in front of Inara, mechanically graceful. "All that complicated machinery no one is supposed to see."
"No," Inara says. "I don't."
"Sorry," River says. "I try not to. Can't turn it off."
"I know."
"Do you hate me for it?" she asks.
"No."
"I don't hate you either."
Inara is good in her own way at seeing inside of people. She reads in the lines of River's body the tension of a string pulled back - instrument plucked or bow drawn to the point of snapping.
"I know," she says, and takes River's face between her hands, brushes her hair back, feels her tilt her head into the touch. "I do know."
And she does - not the cypher of River's brain but the simpler language of fear and need inscribed in the body. Inara draws her down to sit on the floor amid the dust and packing crates, and River hums in contentment - eyes half-closed, throat and clavicle exposed beneath a ragged knit sweater, mind fallen almost quiet. So frail, if you ignore the danger.
Inara ignores nothing. Still, she lets River lean against her - mind open, unafraid, offering what she can give.