Big Damn Airmen: There For the Taking (Havemercy/Firefly)
I have developed a thing for Firefly crossovers and fusions.
Um. I think that's really all I have to say on the matter.
Enjoy the fic, guys.
Title: There For the Taking (Big Damn Airmen 'verse)
Fandom: Havemercy/Firefly
Rating/Warnings: PG / none
Wordcount: 1,588
Summary: Three years after the war ends, Raphael runs into something - someone - that he is totally and completely unprepared for.
Notes: More of the Big Damn Airmen 'verse here.
--
Three years after the war, Raphael walks into a saloon and sees Ivory for the first time since the Alliance won. The pale man is playing piano in the back, some melody Raphael doesn't recognise. Raphael has never actually heard Ivory play; during the war, they never had access to large instruments like that. The fact that Ivory does play is somehow not particularly surprising. He has musician's hands, elegant and long-fingered, dexterous from years of knifeplay.
Raphael fell a little bit for those hands, back when they fought the Alliance together. He wonders if anything will have changed, three years later.
Not quite ready to announce his presence, he makes his way to the bar instead and buys a pint of the local brew. The bartender looks him up and down once, and then as she hands him his mug, says, "You don't look much like a local boy."
"I arrived here just today," Raphael replies. He's been traveling since the war ended - at first fleeing the Alliance, but no one remembers who fought for whom anymore, and he probably could settle down now, find a steady job. He doesn't know what he would do, though. And life on the metaphoric road hasn't been too hard.
The bartender just smiles at him like she's seen a million men like him passing through and knows his kind as well as anyone. "We get a lot of offworlders comin' through. It's all the industry, I think." She bustles off to go serve another customer, but then to Raphael's faint surprise returns. "Saw you lookin' at our pianist when you came in. Don't get much music our in the black, do you?"
Raphael shook his head. "His technique is superb," he says, because he's become used to keeping silent in regards to his past. It's still too soon to get lazy about things like that.
"He's shiny, all right," the bartender replies. "Bit strange, though. Turned up a couple years back, fresh from the black himself, and walked in here and asked if he could play. I hired him after about a week of him comin' in." She eyes Ivory contemplatively, resting her chin on one hand. "He's real pretty, and he plays well, neither of which hurts business any, so I don't ask questions."
Not that questions would have helped her any, Raphael thinks. Suddenly he doesn't want to stay here anymore, pretending not to be utterly engrossed in watching Ivory's back and shoulders. And he's got to find some sort of job, something to keep him eating and clothed and eventually pay his passage elsewhere. If he leaves. But he's not thinking about that, not dealing with the sudden reappearance of one of the few people he ever gave a damn about.
He digs in his bag, pulls out a few coins to pay for his beer, and then drains his mug. "Thank you," he says. "I will fix this place in my memory. Your service has been - most excellent."
"Come back any time," calls the bartender, as Raphael flees.
--
Somehow Raphael pulls himself together, not entirely sure what it is that's driven him so far off the edge, and finds himself a job for the afternoon involving a roomful of crates and a rather beat-up cargo transporter. The man who hires him is curt and untalkative, but a job's a job. Raphael hauls crates all afternoon and into the dusk, and comes away a little richer than before.
He finds a cheap place to stay the night and crashes on the bed, unconcerned about things like hygiene. He sleeps curled around his bag of worldly possessions, knowing from bitter experience never to trust the lock on his door or the late hour to protect him from theft. In the morning he leaves early and heads into the marketplace to sort out breakfast.
It's only after he's eaten that he lets his thoughts trail back to the pseudo-encounter with Ivory in the bar. He finds he's scared, but maybe that makes sense. Three years is a long time, and the loss hit them all hard. And Ivory was always a special kind of crazy - even Rook found him unsettling. Of all people Raphael could have wanted to encounter again, Ivory is both first and last on the list, and that scares him the most.
And then what? For three years he's been a sort of space nomad, hitching rides across the black and slipping past the Alliance's radar. While not the best of lives, it hasn't been the worst, either, and Raphael isn't certain he could bring himself to stay in one place if he wanted to. Or if he wants to at all. But equally he doesn't want to have found one of his old comrades only to leave him behind.
He's wandering the market in a daze, thoughts swirling about his head like stray gunfire, so that he doesn't hear right away when someone calls his name. Then there's a hand on his shoulder, and he whirls to come face to face with someone else he didn't expect to see here.
"Adamo?" he demands, incredulous.
"In the gorram flesh," Adamo replies, in a tone that for him could almost be consider good-natured.
"Did you just - have you been -" Raphael swallows. "What are you doing here?"
"Supply run," Adamo says.
"You know that Ivory…"
Adamo shoots him an impatient glare. "Course I know. I brought him here."
Raphael gapes. "You - have a ship?" He would have tried to find one himself, save that he had never been any good as a pilot, and he didn't want to join a crew of people he didn't know. He supposes he shouldn't be surprised that Adamo was not hindered by such considerations.
"She's a piece of gos se, but she flies," Adamo says dismissively. "You need a ride somewhere?"
He's shaking his head even before he hears the whole question. "No, I - thank you, Adamo, you are exceedingly kind, but I find I have to - there's something I need to do." And then he's running, though he's not sure from what, or to what even.
He doesn't even know where he's running until he's shoving through the double doors of the bar and running toward Ivory. His heart's thudding in his chest with the strength and speed of the kind of thrust engine he's never been able to pilot and still can't control now.
"Ivory," he chokes out, and then freezes, panics. He's not ready for this, not ready to see faces he recognises, people who matter to him. He's not ready for Ivory's cool nonchalance, for the calm response he's sure to receive.
Ivory turns slowly and eyes Raphael for a long silent moment, his fingers stilling on the keys of the piano. "It's been a while," he says just as slowly, and his fingers twitch like he's already missing the motion of music. There's no surprise in his face, in his eyes, but Raphael knows that stiff posture well enough to see it anyway. "We wondered if you had died," Ivory continues, and it's almost a question.
"I - no," Raphael says, grasping for his usual eloquence and feeling it slip from his fingers with spiteful ease. "I'm still among the living."
"You are," Ivory replies, calm as ever, face untouched by emotion. Raphael wonders, as he so often did during the war, if they really are polar opposites, because he's sure that everything he's feeling, every skip of uncertainty and overwhelming wave of terror and bewilderment must have painted itself on his face for Ivory to see. He doesn't think it's fair, that Ivory could always be so calm. Even in the heat of battle - even in the face of imminent defeat and likely death.
And Raphael needed that then, like he needs it now, but Ivory has always been this unreachable thing in his mind, an icon to be striven for but never touched upon. Now, with salvation staring him in the face, he doesn't know where to go. Doesn't know how to reach out and touch. Doesn't know if he even should.
And then, inexplicably, he thinks of Adamo and his gos se ship. Never mind the epithet - Raphael knows that flying that ship out into the black must be the best gorram thing Adamo's ever had going for him since the war ended, no matter what other problems it's caused. Raphael isn't Adamo, isn't even half the man his former commanding officer is. But he can learn by example.
"Things were," he says, and then stops for a moment as a surge of adrenaline closes off his throat, "they were substantially more difficult - that is to say -" He drags in a breath, feels himself losing balance, grabs at Ivory's shoulder to catch himself as he staggers. "You were all the people I had, the only things in this great and bewildering universe that gave it any significant meaning," he tries again. His fingers dig painfully into Ivory's shoulder. "Ivory, I -"
"Spare me," Ivory tells him, and his tone is clipped like he's holding something back. "You don't need to ask to return."
That's when Raphael realises that this is Ivory attempting to convey relief, welcome even, and that he's probably not making any sense anyway. "I'm not asking," he says, and tries to smile. Then he inhales again, soft and deep, and his smile grows stronger at the softening of Ivory's jaw, the way his shoulders relax against Raphael's desperate clench.
Um. I think that's really all I have to say on the matter.
Enjoy the fic, guys.
Title: There For the Taking (Big Damn Airmen 'verse)
Fandom: Havemercy/Firefly
Rating/Warnings: PG / none
Wordcount: 1,588
Summary: Three years after the war ends, Raphael runs into something - someone - that he is totally and completely unprepared for.
Notes: More of the Big Damn Airmen 'verse here.
--
Three years after the war, Raphael walks into a saloon and sees Ivory for the first time since the Alliance won. The pale man is playing piano in the back, some melody Raphael doesn't recognise. Raphael has never actually heard Ivory play; during the war, they never had access to large instruments like that. The fact that Ivory does play is somehow not particularly surprising. He has musician's hands, elegant and long-fingered, dexterous from years of knifeplay.
Raphael fell a little bit for those hands, back when they fought the Alliance together. He wonders if anything will have changed, three years later.
Not quite ready to announce his presence, he makes his way to the bar instead and buys a pint of the local brew. The bartender looks him up and down once, and then as she hands him his mug, says, "You don't look much like a local boy."
"I arrived here just today," Raphael replies. He's been traveling since the war ended - at first fleeing the Alliance, but no one remembers who fought for whom anymore, and he probably could settle down now, find a steady job. He doesn't know what he would do, though. And life on the metaphoric road hasn't been too hard.
The bartender just smiles at him like she's seen a million men like him passing through and knows his kind as well as anyone. "We get a lot of offworlders comin' through. It's all the industry, I think." She bustles off to go serve another customer, but then to Raphael's faint surprise returns. "Saw you lookin' at our pianist when you came in. Don't get much music our in the black, do you?"
Raphael shook his head. "His technique is superb," he says, because he's become used to keeping silent in regards to his past. It's still too soon to get lazy about things like that.
"He's shiny, all right," the bartender replies. "Bit strange, though. Turned up a couple years back, fresh from the black himself, and walked in here and asked if he could play. I hired him after about a week of him comin' in." She eyes Ivory contemplatively, resting her chin on one hand. "He's real pretty, and he plays well, neither of which hurts business any, so I don't ask questions."
Not that questions would have helped her any, Raphael thinks. Suddenly he doesn't want to stay here anymore, pretending not to be utterly engrossed in watching Ivory's back and shoulders. And he's got to find some sort of job, something to keep him eating and clothed and eventually pay his passage elsewhere. If he leaves. But he's not thinking about that, not dealing with the sudden reappearance of one of the few people he ever gave a damn about.
He digs in his bag, pulls out a few coins to pay for his beer, and then drains his mug. "Thank you," he says. "I will fix this place in my memory. Your service has been - most excellent."
"Come back any time," calls the bartender, as Raphael flees.
--
Somehow Raphael pulls himself together, not entirely sure what it is that's driven him so far off the edge, and finds himself a job for the afternoon involving a roomful of crates and a rather beat-up cargo transporter. The man who hires him is curt and untalkative, but a job's a job. Raphael hauls crates all afternoon and into the dusk, and comes away a little richer than before.
He finds a cheap place to stay the night and crashes on the bed, unconcerned about things like hygiene. He sleeps curled around his bag of worldly possessions, knowing from bitter experience never to trust the lock on his door or the late hour to protect him from theft. In the morning he leaves early and heads into the marketplace to sort out breakfast.
It's only after he's eaten that he lets his thoughts trail back to the pseudo-encounter with Ivory in the bar. He finds he's scared, but maybe that makes sense. Three years is a long time, and the loss hit them all hard. And Ivory was always a special kind of crazy - even Rook found him unsettling. Of all people Raphael could have wanted to encounter again, Ivory is both first and last on the list, and that scares him the most.
And then what? For three years he's been a sort of space nomad, hitching rides across the black and slipping past the Alliance's radar. While not the best of lives, it hasn't been the worst, either, and Raphael isn't certain he could bring himself to stay in one place if he wanted to. Or if he wants to at all. But equally he doesn't want to have found one of his old comrades only to leave him behind.
He's wandering the market in a daze, thoughts swirling about his head like stray gunfire, so that he doesn't hear right away when someone calls his name. Then there's a hand on his shoulder, and he whirls to come face to face with someone else he didn't expect to see here.
"Adamo?" he demands, incredulous.
"In the gorram flesh," Adamo replies, in a tone that for him could almost be consider good-natured.
"Did you just - have you been -" Raphael swallows. "What are you doing here?"
"Supply run," Adamo says.
"You know that Ivory…"
Adamo shoots him an impatient glare. "Course I know. I brought him here."
Raphael gapes. "You - have a ship?" He would have tried to find one himself, save that he had never been any good as a pilot, and he didn't want to join a crew of people he didn't know. He supposes he shouldn't be surprised that Adamo was not hindered by such considerations.
"She's a piece of gos se, but she flies," Adamo says dismissively. "You need a ride somewhere?"
He's shaking his head even before he hears the whole question. "No, I - thank you, Adamo, you are exceedingly kind, but I find I have to - there's something I need to do." And then he's running, though he's not sure from what, or to what even.
He doesn't even know where he's running until he's shoving through the double doors of the bar and running toward Ivory. His heart's thudding in his chest with the strength and speed of the kind of thrust engine he's never been able to pilot and still can't control now.
"Ivory," he chokes out, and then freezes, panics. He's not ready for this, not ready to see faces he recognises, people who matter to him. He's not ready for Ivory's cool nonchalance, for the calm response he's sure to receive.
Ivory turns slowly and eyes Raphael for a long silent moment, his fingers stilling on the keys of the piano. "It's been a while," he says just as slowly, and his fingers twitch like he's already missing the motion of music. There's no surprise in his face, in his eyes, but Raphael knows that stiff posture well enough to see it anyway. "We wondered if you had died," Ivory continues, and it's almost a question.
"I - no," Raphael says, grasping for his usual eloquence and feeling it slip from his fingers with spiteful ease. "I'm still among the living."
"You are," Ivory replies, calm as ever, face untouched by emotion. Raphael wonders, as he so often did during the war, if they really are polar opposites, because he's sure that everything he's feeling, every skip of uncertainty and overwhelming wave of terror and bewilderment must have painted itself on his face for Ivory to see. He doesn't think it's fair, that Ivory could always be so calm. Even in the heat of battle - even in the face of imminent defeat and likely death.
And Raphael needed that then, like he needs it now, but Ivory has always been this unreachable thing in his mind, an icon to be striven for but never touched upon. Now, with salvation staring him in the face, he doesn't know where to go. Doesn't know how to reach out and touch. Doesn't know if he even should.
And then, inexplicably, he thinks of Adamo and his gos se ship. Never mind the epithet - Raphael knows that flying that ship out into the black must be the best gorram thing Adamo's ever had going for him since the war ended, no matter what other problems it's caused. Raphael isn't Adamo, isn't even half the man his former commanding officer is. But he can learn by example.
"Things were," he says, and then stops for a moment as a surge of adrenaline closes off his throat, "they were substantially more difficult - that is to say -" He drags in a breath, feels himself losing balance, grabs at Ivory's shoulder to catch himself as he staggers. "You were all the people I had, the only things in this great and bewildering universe that gave it any significant meaning," he tries again. His fingers dig painfully into Ivory's shoulder. "Ivory, I -"
"Spare me," Ivory tells him, and his tone is clipped like he's holding something back. "You don't need to ask to return."
That's when Raphael realises that this is Ivory attempting to convey relief, welcome even, and that he's probably not making any sense anyway. "I'm not asking," he says, and tries to smile. Then he inhales again, soft and deep, and his smile grows stronger at the softening of Ivory's jaw, the way his shoulders relax against Raphael's desperate clench.