(Firefly) big damn drabbles!
For fahye, Five times Mal caused Inara to become actually speechless.
01. Perhaps being on the run from the law is more romantic than being on the run from oneself, Inara muses, a trifle let down by the dingy shipyard. She flew blind from Sihnon, flights chosen at random, and here she is, in some tiny corner of the galaxy that has apparently never heard of cleaning solution. She steadies herself, walks on--and goes unsteady all over again, breath catching in her throat. If not hope, beauty springs eternal, and occasionally in the form of an old Firefly transport.
02. River is having a tea party, says Mal when he comes to ask Inara for some of her fancy cups. Doc says it's good for her to start talking regular to people again. Girl says there's nothin' regular about falling down rabbit holes--and that you're invited. Inara keeps her lips pressed together to prevent laughter from spilling out. She's not really laughing at him, just at the way his soft spots get more obvious every day.
03. They're at it again, words flying like knives. These words are rendered blunt by what they cannot say to each other; they are all the more painful as a result. Even a petty thief should know better than to walk straight into his death, Inara snaps, tired of this worry she feels whenever another dangerous job comes up. Even a whore should know better than to think she can talk this petty thief out of anything, Mal replies. There are more knives in the drawer of her mind, but Inara chooses silence instead, bitter and cold.
04. Mal kisses like whiskey, not at all sweet and burning on the way down. They should leave the bridge before someone comes along, maybe River on her late-night wanderings. She should leave, at the very least; it's undignified, the way he pulled her onto his lap minutes ago, the way she fits inside his arms and around his waist and between his mouth. Nothing about this should be enjoyable, yet here she is undone and honey hot, Mal underneath and the stars outside.
05. Inara tries not to weep and succeeds; nevertheless her hands tremble as she packs her things, all the soft loveliness tucked away until her shuttle is angular emptiness. Naturally Mal walks through the doorway without asking, looks at her as though memorizing the circumference of her face. She can hear I love you and Don't leave in his gaze, so she schools her expression into a mask that says nothing, nothing at all.
--
For tahira_saki, Five moments where Simon watched River.
01. So far the baby hasn't done anything interesting. Crying and eating and sleeping aren't particularly special. Simon knows, having done all three himself. But he waits with surprising patience for an eight-year-old boy, waits by the cradle for River. When she opens her eyes, he stretches out a hand and says mei mei. As her fingers curl around one of his fingers, he knows that this is important, somehow, that it will always be this way with her, the waiting and then the connection.
02. Simon prefers watching River practice rather than her ballet recitals. He sees more inherent beauty in her frustration when her body does not move precisely the way she wants it to, the furrowing of her brow as she works out the physics of grace. Recitals are polished plastic, she already bored with mastery, ready to move on. River's mind in motion, that's what he loves, watching her go.
03. Photographs on the wall remind him every day that he has a little sister and she needs him. She's trapped somewhere out there, so he recaptures her in jagged stills, a collage of grainy color and smooth black-and-white. His colleagues tease him about his girlfriend. After he explains, there is a stare that wonders why no photographs of the rest of his family. He cannot tell them that they have already left, emotionally absent in their selfishness, that River his only family will leave if he does not trap her under glass.
04. He walks away from Kaylee's sunshine again because it's past time to check on River. She is always caught between waking and sleeping as he walks into the room, never sleeps until he straightens the blankets and strokes her hair, staying with her a while. Tonight she murmurs, If I ask for the moon you don't have to give it to me. He accepts the apology but remains by her side; it's the only place he always belongs.
05. The others watch for her inevitable explosion, some nicer about it than others, but always they look at her pieces and the way her ends are jagged. Simon watches for signs of the girl she used to be, sees what the Academy has done to her, envisions the woman she might still become. It's in the way she handles a knife and walks barefoot through the ship and speaks in jumbled poetry, in her dark depths and glinting surfaces. River flows, floats on.
--
For keylimetruffle, Wash and Zoe, mo(u)rning thoughts.
Maybe they work together so well because Wash knows when to give and when to take, when to speak and when to keep his mouth shut. He knows that there is a morning every April when Zoe rises early to watch the stars, hands clenched so tightly together her knuckles stand out, like she's praying to an unmerciful god. It's some kind of anniversary she doesn't share with the captain, so maybe it's not from the war, and it kills Wash to watch his wife stick out her grief alone, straight-backed and facing the black. But there's nothing he can do.
Well, maybe not directly. He acts normally all day, since she won't take any pity or even sympathy, thinking the entire time, and by night he has a joke for her so funny it sends her into tears, tears that end up falling for something else, and he holds her until they fall asleep in each other's arms.
01. Perhaps being on the run from the law is more romantic than being on the run from oneself, Inara muses, a trifle let down by the dingy shipyard. She flew blind from Sihnon, flights chosen at random, and here she is, in some tiny corner of the galaxy that has apparently never heard of cleaning solution. She steadies herself, walks on--and goes unsteady all over again, breath catching in her throat. If not hope, beauty springs eternal, and occasionally in the form of an old Firefly transport.
02. River is having a tea party, says Mal when he comes to ask Inara for some of her fancy cups. Doc says it's good for her to start talking regular to people again. Girl says there's nothin' regular about falling down rabbit holes--and that you're invited. Inara keeps her lips pressed together to prevent laughter from spilling out. She's not really laughing at him, just at the way his soft spots get more obvious every day.
03. They're at it again, words flying like knives. These words are rendered blunt by what they cannot say to each other; they are all the more painful as a result. Even a petty thief should know better than to walk straight into his death, Inara snaps, tired of this worry she feels whenever another dangerous job comes up. Even a whore should know better than to think she can talk this petty thief out of anything, Mal replies. There are more knives in the drawer of her mind, but Inara chooses silence instead, bitter and cold.
04. Mal kisses like whiskey, not at all sweet and burning on the way down. They should leave the bridge before someone comes along, maybe River on her late-night wanderings. She should leave, at the very least; it's undignified, the way he pulled her onto his lap minutes ago, the way she fits inside his arms and around his waist and between his mouth. Nothing about this should be enjoyable, yet here she is undone and honey hot, Mal underneath and the stars outside.
05. Inara tries not to weep and succeeds; nevertheless her hands tremble as she packs her things, all the soft loveliness tucked away until her shuttle is angular emptiness. Naturally Mal walks through the doorway without asking, looks at her as though memorizing the circumference of her face. She can hear I love you and Don't leave in his gaze, so she schools her expression into a mask that says nothing, nothing at all.
--
For tahira_saki, Five moments where Simon watched River.
01. So far the baby hasn't done anything interesting. Crying and eating and sleeping aren't particularly special. Simon knows, having done all three himself. But he waits with surprising patience for an eight-year-old boy, waits by the cradle for River. When she opens her eyes, he stretches out a hand and says mei mei. As her fingers curl around one of his fingers, he knows that this is important, somehow, that it will always be this way with her, the waiting and then the connection.
02. Simon prefers watching River practice rather than her ballet recitals. He sees more inherent beauty in her frustration when her body does not move precisely the way she wants it to, the furrowing of her brow as she works out the physics of grace. Recitals are polished plastic, she already bored with mastery, ready to move on. River's mind in motion, that's what he loves, watching her go.
03. Photographs on the wall remind him every day that he has a little sister and she needs him. She's trapped somewhere out there, so he recaptures her in jagged stills, a collage of grainy color and smooth black-and-white. His colleagues tease him about his girlfriend. After he explains, there is a stare that wonders why no photographs of the rest of his family. He cannot tell them that they have already left, emotionally absent in their selfishness, that River his only family will leave if he does not trap her under glass.
04. He walks away from Kaylee's sunshine again because it's past time to check on River. She is always caught between waking and sleeping as he walks into the room, never sleeps until he straightens the blankets and strokes her hair, staying with her a while. Tonight she murmurs, If I ask for the moon you don't have to give it to me. He accepts the apology but remains by her side; it's the only place he always belongs.
05. The others watch for her inevitable explosion, some nicer about it than others, but always they look at her pieces and the way her ends are jagged. Simon watches for signs of the girl she used to be, sees what the Academy has done to her, envisions the woman she might still become. It's in the way she handles a knife and walks barefoot through the ship and speaks in jumbled poetry, in her dark depths and glinting surfaces. River flows, floats on.
--
For keylimetruffle, Wash and Zoe, mo(u)rning thoughts.
Maybe they work together so well because Wash knows when to give and when to take, when to speak and when to keep his mouth shut. He knows that there is a morning every April when Zoe rises early to watch the stars, hands clenched so tightly together her knuckles stand out, like she's praying to an unmerciful god. It's some kind of anniversary she doesn't share with the captain, so maybe it's not from the war, and it kills Wash to watch his wife stick out her grief alone, straight-backed and facing the black. But there's nothing he can do.
Well, maybe not directly. He acts normally all day, since she won't take any pity or even sympathy, thinking the entire time, and by night he has a joke for her so funny it sends her into tears, tears that end up falling for something else, and he holds her until they fall asleep in each other's arms.