Fic: All Motion Stopped (Firefly: River, Mal, PG)
I was beginning to wonder if I could write anything these days that wasn't just a shopping list. When in doubt, return to where you started.
All Motion Stopped, Firefly: River, Mal; PG; 1,102 words
For fireworkfiasco, who is clever and talented and wrote the first paragraph, and very generous to let me play with the rest.
He has rolled the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows; the skin on his arms is brown from the sun, time spent on earth-bound places that River so rarely sees, not these days, when she only seems to be proficient at hiding from real things, the reality of what is out there.
~~
Time me and then she’s off like a bullet, like a cliché, running to run, to escape, to not look back. When people look at her, they see a bit of crazy and a lot of strange as her eyes flirt and fall away. She bites her lip and is almost beautiful.
Not that it matters. Reactions are far-flung and lose significant meaning when she slows long enough to listen. Poor Simon; she pulls him where he has little will to go, but as he loves her, he won't say anything but how clever she is, his River, little sister, sweet girl turned into something hurt and half in shadow. But she is as quick to scold just as she is to turn like a shying horse and bolt to cover. I will go where they can't. Her eyes tell of the sharp and fire-bright truth; it makes them wonder, after all.
Minutes pass, and those minutes turn into an hour, and she quickly loses track of time. Alone, the need to run fulfilled, she does the opposite and remains cemented in place. Just River and Serenity, and she absorbs the feel of it as one might absorb a deep murmur of symphonic bass--the music of spaceflight, tuned to a pitch that requires all motion stopped in order to hear. She rests in complete stillness, bare feet on the honeycomb catwalk. As the metal warms to the touch, to her skin, River closes her eyes.
"Jayne Cobb, you ever hear of tying somethin' down proper?"
She is not alone. Somewhere below, the captain is moving from box to box, a lone figure in the cargo hold. He is talking to himself, evidently unimpressed with something or other, but she knows words spoken are quickly forgotten. Mal's mind is far away in a place of schemes and organisation; he is planning, always planning. Some of his plans are only dreams, River thinks, because that is their nature. Things fall away, run amiss. Lies are told.
Contrary man. Now he is whistling, and the sound makes her peel away from the statue-like position she has carved out in this little enclave, up high, and alone. The tune is wildly off-key, though she supposes that to be the intention of the plan. He is radiating uncharacteristic bonhomie. She wishes she could ask him outright, why? Tell me, talk to me, give me a reason to move and not run.
She wonders...perhaps...perhaps it is not her. Perhaps it is everything else, the whole great universe, spun to a dizzying stop. Confusion grips her with leaden fingers; for a moment she is frozen, and does not know how to proceed. In the end River waits, gives him near fifty seconds of a breath-held minute to find his own way out, and clambers quietly to stand upright.
He spots her immediately.
"Hey, little one." Mal speaks as if they had been talking for all this time, an easy familiarity that makes River feel light on her feet. "You've small hands, right?"
She says nothing.
"'Cept I seem to have a mercenary who can't tie a knot in place," he continues, apparently quite happy to interrupt her silence. "And since you've been up there all these last couple hours doin' little but stare at parts of my ship we mortal folk merely walk upon, I figured some actual hand to work might do you some good. How 'bout it?"
In place of a direct answer, River walks to the steps and down, toe to heel. Mal eyes her progress, one hand resting on his belt where the holster buckle catches the light; but it is empty and looks wanting. She imagines the gun drawn, dangerous weapon in the surest hands in the 'verse. Drawn to muscle out a deal, drawn as an unspoken statement.
To protect, she thinks. He would protect them all.
River breathes deeply; her heart thumps inside her chest, a fluttering sensation that is no longer erratic but beginning, just beginning, to sound of certainty. That. That is reason enough to stay--if nothing else, that is enough.
She moves towards him and takes the knotted rope. Still no words; Mal, who stands at her shoulder, watches her fingers move, and when River finishes she hands it back like a prize, like a problem solved that has stumped mankind for centuries. He takes it and there is a half-smile on his lips. She understands him. It is the one he gives so rarely.
"Well now." And she waits for him to say something more but nothing comes. With workmanlike intent, Mal flicks the free length of rope around and around the box. He has rolled the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows; the skin on his arms is brown from the sun, time spent on earth-bound places that River so rarely sees, not these days, when she only seems to be proficient at hiding from real things, the reality of what is out there. The captain, though, is proficient at practical matters, as with the gun, and his plans of making something better happen out of the bare, barren world.
In this, in some way they can't help but see in one another, he is as much alone as River.
Job done, he stands back, surveying his work. Mal crosses his arms, possibly contemplating knots that might very well come undone again; and River wriggles her toes on the hard floor and thinks how odd these incidental situations are, what a banal task this is, and why, therefore, could she feel so safe. Once, she would have looked at a box like this and been overwhelmed with fear, a heightened knowledge that once shut inside, that would be it, the end. Darkness in perpetuality. And nobody left to save her.
But things change. She feels his presence shift, turns to see Mal direct his attention to the rest of the cargo. He is whistling again, softly, and River follows--no hesitation now, because she is expected--and they work as a pair to secure the other boxes, tie and untie knots in silence. She wonders what Simon would say.
Why do you run, mei-mei?
I run...
She looks at the captain, across the breadth of the last box. He says thank you, once, placing a hand to her shoulder, and then he is gone. River stands and looks about her. There is no more to do; she has done a job, been of use.
Nothing to fear, no reason to hide.
This is the reason she runs. It is to see who might follow.
All Motion Stopped, Firefly: River, Mal; PG; 1,102 words
For fireworkfiasco, who is clever and talented and wrote the first paragraph, and very generous to let me play with the rest.
He has rolled the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows; the skin on his arms is brown from the sun, time spent on earth-bound places that River so rarely sees, not these days, when she only seems to be proficient at hiding from real things, the reality of what is out there.
~~
Time me and then she’s off like a bullet, like a cliché, running to run, to escape, to not look back. When people look at her, they see a bit of crazy and a lot of strange as her eyes flirt and fall away. She bites her lip and is almost beautiful.
Not that it matters. Reactions are far-flung and lose significant meaning when she slows long enough to listen. Poor Simon; she pulls him where he has little will to go, but as he loves her, he won't say anything but how clever she is, his River, little sister, sweet girl turned into something hurt and half in shadow. But she is as quick to scold just as she is to turn like a shying horse and bolt to cover. I will go where they can't. Her eyes tell of the sharp and fire-bright truth; it makes them wonder, after all.
Minutes pass, and those minutes turn into an hour, and she quickly loses track of time. Alone, the need to run fulfilled, she does the opposite and remains cemented in place. Just River and Serenity, and she absorbs the feel of it as one might absorb a deep murmur of symphonic bass--the music of spaceflight, tuned to a pitch that requires all motion stopped in order to hear. She rests in complete stillness, bare feet on the honeycomb catwalk. As the metal warms to the touch, to her skin, River closes her eyes.
"Jayne Cobb, you ever hear of tying somethin' down proper?"
She is not alone. Somewhere below, the captain is moving from box to box, a lone figure in the cargo hold. He is talking to himself, evidently unimpressed with something or other, but she knows words spoken are quickly forgotten. Mal's mind is far away in a place of schemes and organisation; he is planning, always planning. Some of his plans are only dreams, River thinks, because that is their nature. Things fall away, run amiss. Lies are told.
Contrary man. Now he is whistling, and the sound makes her peel away from the statue-like position she has carved out in this little enclave, up high, and alone. The tune is wildly off-key, though she supposes that to be the intention of the plan. He is radiating uncharacteristic bonhomie. She wishes she could ask him outright, why? Tell me, talk to me, give me a reason to move and not run.
She wonders...perhaps...perhaps it is not her. Perhaps it is everything else, the whole great universe, spun to a dizzying stop. Confusion grips her with leaden fingers; for a moment she is frozen, and does not know how to proceed. In the end River waits, gives him near fifty seconds of a breath-held minute to find his own way out, and clambers quietly to stand upright.
He spots her immediately.
"Hey, little one." Mal speaks as if they had been talking for all this time, an easy familiarity that makes River feel light on her feet. "You've small hands, right?"
She says nothing.
"'Cept I seem to have a mercenary who can't tie a knot in place," he continues, apparently quite happy to interrupt her silence. "And since you've been up there all these last couple hours doin' little but stare at parts of my ship we mortal folk merely walk upon, I figured some actual hand to work might do you some good. How 'bout it?"
In place of a direct answer, River walks to the steps and down, toe to heel. Mal eyes her progress, one hand resting on his belt where the holster buckle catches the light; but it is empty and looks wanting. She imagines the gun drawn, dangerous weapon in the surest hands in the 'verse. Drawn to muscle out a deal, drawn as an unspoken statement.
To protect, she thinks. He would protect them all.
River breathes deeply; her heart thumps inside her chest, a fluttering sensation that is no longer erratic but beginning, just beginning, to sound of certainty. That. That is reason enough to stay--if nothing else, that is enough.
She moves towards him and takes the knotted rope. Still no words; Mal, who stands at her shoulder, watches her fingers move, and when River finishes she hands it back like a prize, like a problem solved that has stumped mankind for centuries. He takes it and there is a half-smile on his lips. She understands him. It is the one he gives so rarely.
"Well now." And she waits for him to say something more but nothing comes. With workmanlike intent, Mal flicks the free length of rope around and around the box. He has rolled the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows; the skin on his arms is brown from the sun, time spent on earth-bound places that River so rarely sees, not these days, when she only seems to be proficient at hiding from real things, the reality of what is out there. The captain, though, is proficient at practical matters, as with the gun, and his plans of making something better happen out of the bare, barren world.
In this, in some way they can't help but see in one another, he is as much alone as River.
Job done, he stands back, surveying his work. Mal crosses his arms, possibly contemplating knots that might very well come undone again; and River wriggles her toes on the hard floor and thinks how odd these incidental situations are, what a banal task this is, and why, therefore, could she feel so safe. Once, she would have looked at a box like this and been overwhelmed with fear, a heightened knowledge that once shut inside, that would be it, the end. Darkness in perpetuality. And nobody left to save her.
But things change. She feels his presence shift, turns to see Mal direct his attention to the rest of the cargo. He is whistling again, softly, and River follows--no hesitation now, because she is expected--and they work as a pair to secure the other boxes, tie and untie knots in silence. She wonders what Simon would say.
Why do you run, mei-mei?
I run...
She looks at the captain, across the breadth of the last box. He says thank you, once, placing a hand to her shoulder, and then he is gone. River stands and looks about her. There is no more to do; she has done a job, been of use.
Nothing to fear, no reason to hide.
This is the reason she runs. It is to see who might follow.