#478 - [FIC] Little Fox, Little Goose (Eames/Mal)
A quick note for my flist---this is the reworked (and hopefully more ~spectacular) version of the not fic (sorry, flocked) I posted two months ago. Thanks very much for the concrit! The good ship Eames/Mal sails once more. ♥
Title: Little Fox, Little Goose
Word Count: 696
Pairing: Eames/Mal
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Mal doesn't want to be anyone's wife.
Warnings: may contain errant biblical references and overwrought prose
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be.
Author's Note: Originally intended as a fill for this prompt. It still fits, sort of. For those of you wondering, whether this is an AU or pre-canon is entirely up to your interpretation. I wouldn't rule out either possibility.
The heavens hung so close it seemed that Mal need only stretch out her hand to powder her fingertips with stardust. Her eyes lit on Vulpecula, the little fox. A warm breeze dried the sweat cooling on her skin. Eames yawned, still sprawled beside her where he’d dozed off after they’d made love, blanketed by a patchwork of constellations.
Mal combed her fingers through Eames’ hair and smiled. It was beginning to curl around his ears and at the base of his neck, the fine, sandy tendrils plastered to his skin like filigree. Eames kissed her breast and settled with his face turned into the dark whorls of hair beneath her arm.
“Needs a trim, doesn’t it?” he mumbled.
“I’ll cut it for you if you like.”
He chuckled throatily. “Maybe I’ll let you have a go at it in the morning, dear Delilah.” He was quiet for a moment. “Mal, what do you reckon our children would be like?”
Mal glanced at him, the firelight reflected back at her in his grey eyes. “I seem to remember you telling me you didn’t want to be a father.”
“Not when we were fifteen, I didn’t,” he agreed, readily enough. “We were just kids ourselves, then. We’re a bit older now.”
She sat up to watch the fire. It sent intermittent bursts of orange sparks into the air, candle flames that blazed for a brief moment and were snuffed out again. Eames molded himself to her back and wound an arm around her waist.
“Not that old,” Mal said. She leaned back in his arms and watched the moths their fire had drawn; tiny sailors steered away from the stars by the light and warmth. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”
“Trying to keep up with yours, I suspect,” he said.
“I know you, Daniel Eames. You need space, freedom. You don’t want to settle down.”
He murmured noncommittally, kissing her shoulders, stroking her with his rough hands. The wet earth caught under his nails left little tracks of mud on her naked belly.
“I’d marry you, you know,” he said. “If you asked me to. I’d do it tomorrow.”
“Silly boy.”
“Is that a yes, then?”
She was sure if she twisted around to look at him, he would be wearing that wide, crooked grin she had loved since the first time she had seen it at thirteen. A smile she had taken great pleasure in kissing away at fourteen.
“Mal?”
“What good would it do us to be married? There would be bills and schedules and dirty dishes in the sink. That isn’t the life for us.”
“We would never let it get like that.”
“I don’t want to be your wife.”
Marriage would domesticate them, quell this thrumming in their blood, make them grow old before they had the chance to be young. Her ears were filled with the whisper of Eames’ lungs and the thumping of his heart. She would miss those sounds in the city, where there would be noisy neighbors and car alarms and too much smog to see the stars.
“I don’t want to be anyone’s wife,” Mal told him. “Yours least of all.”
“We can’t go on like this forever.”
“Can’t we? Everything I want, everything I need, I have right here.”
“The money-”
“Don’t, Eames.”
His body was too taut against her back, all of him wound too tightly. She sighed and turned to kiss him; to quiet his confusion, to make him understand. His eyelashes tickled her cheek, his mouth sweet and earnest.
“There is always more money,” she murmured, her hand on his stubbled cheek. “This, there is not so much of.”
The fire was dying down now. Eames pulled her close and pulled a blanket over both of them. Mal tucked her body close to trap the warmth between them. Up above, the little fox winked at her and grinned around the goose caught in her clever maw. Winter would chase little Vulpecula back into her den, her trophy faded with the change of seasons, her belly empty.
The thought left her unsettled, but winter was months off. They still had the summer. For now.
Title: Little Fox, Little Goose
Word Count: 696
Pairing: Eames/Mal
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Mal doesn't want to be anyone's wife.
Warnings: may contain errant biblical references and overwrought prose
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be.
Author's Note: Originally intended as a fill for this prompt. It still fits, sort of. For those of you wondering, whether this is an AU or pre-canon is entirely up to your interpretation. I wouldn't rule out either possibility.
The heavens hung so close it seemed that Mal need only stretch out her hand to powder her fingertips with stardust. Her eyes lit on Vulpecula, the little fox. A warm breeze dried the sweat cooling on her skin. Eames yawned, still sprawled beside her where he’d dozed off after they’d made love, blanketed by a patchwork of constellations.
Mal combed her fingers through Eames’ hair and smiled. It was beginning to curl around his ears and at the base of his neck, the fine, sandy tendrils plastered to his skin like filigree. Eames kissed her breast and settled with his face turned into the dark whorls of hair beneath her arm.
“Needs a trim, doesn’t it?” he mumbled.
“I’ll cut it for you if you like.”
He chuckled throatily. “Maybe I’ll let you have a go at it in the morning, dear Delilah.” He was quiet for a moment. “Mal, what do you reckon our children would be like?”
Mal glanced at him, the firelight reflected back at her in his grey eyes. “I seem to remember you telling me you didn’t want to be a father.”
“Not when we were fifteen, I didn’t,” he agreed, readily enough. “We were just kids ourselves, then. We’re a bit older now.”
She sat up to watch the fire. It sent intermittent bursts of orange sparks into the air, candle flames that blazed for a brief moment and were snuffed out again. Eames molded himself to her back and wound an arm around her waist.
“Not that old,” Mal said. She leaned back in his arms and watched the moths their fire had drawn; tiny sailors steered away from the stars by the light and warmth. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”
“Trying to keep up with yours, I suspect,” he said.
“I know you, Daniel Eames. You need space, freedom. You don’t want to settle down.”
He murmured noncommittally, kissing her shoulders, stroking her with his rough hands. The wet earth caught under his nails left little tracks of mud on her naked belly.
“I’d marry you, you know,” he said. “If you asked me to. I’d do it tomorrow.”
“Silly boy.”
“Is that a yes, then?”
She was sure if she twisted around to look at him, he would be wearing that wide, crooked grin she had loved since the first time she had seen it at thirteen. A smile she had taken great pleasure in kissing away at fourteen.
“Mal?”
“What good would it do us to be married? There would be bills and schedules and dirty dishes in the sink. That isn’t the life for us.”
“We would never let it get like that.”
“I don’t want to be your wife.”
Marriage would domesticate them, quell this thrumming in their blood, make them grow old before they had the chance to be young. Her ears were filled with the whisper of Eames’ lungs and the thumping of his heart. She would miss those sounds in the city, where there would be noisy neighbors and car alarms and too much smog to see the stars.
“I don’t want to be anyone’s wife,” Mal told him. “Yours least of all.”
“We can’t go on like this forever.”
“Can’t we? Everything I want, everything I need, I have right here.”
“The money-”
“Don’t, Eames.”
His body was too taut against her back, all of him wound too tightly. She sighed and turned to kiss him; to quiet his confusion, to make him understand. His eyelashes tickled her cheek, his mouth sweet and earnest.
“There is always more money,” she murmured, her hand on his stubbled cheek. “This, there is not so much of.”
The fire was dying down now. Eames pulled her close and pulled a blanket over both of them. Mal tucked her body close to trap the warmth between them. Up above, the little fox winked at her and grinned around the goose caught in her clever maw. Winter would chase little Vulpecula back into her den, her trophy faded with the change of seasons, her belly empty.
The thought left her unsettled, but winter was months off. They still had the summer. For now.