Mal/River "Hazel"
TITLE: Hazel
AUTHOR: Flannery Chalke
DISCLAIMER: It’s all from the mind of Joss Whedon, I’m just along for the ride.
RATING: 13+, implied sexuality
SUMMARY: All he can think about are her eyes.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: post BDM, reviews are fantastic!!
I took the prompt from ff_friday (color), but it morphed into something else.
Mal never sleeps well anymore, which is ironic because he’s finally found some peace he can live with. Protecting River Tam is as noble as 2000 odd troops, plus his odds are much better. The combat trained psychic doesn’t really need him, he knows this, but still, it’s the first truly honorable job he’s ever taken.
Broadcasting the signal on Miranda seals his fate, and he seals it willingly. Mal has a talent for pissing people off, but this time, the scale is too huge to comprehend. The entire Alliance wants him for treason and whatever else they can think up; his photo will be added to the bounty list with Simon and River.
He walks away from the broken Operative and the screams of an unknown doctor and all he can think about is River. He sealed his fate and hers and Simons because three people are easier to find than two, especially when one is the registered captain of a ship. He needs to find her and make sure she is alive. Everything else feels pointless if she isn’t.
In the dimly lit hallway he scans the bodies and counts four and panics. She is not here and the sounds from behind the closed blast door freeze his freely flowing blood. And then the blast door opens and she’s beautiful and bloody and victorious and exhausted. He can make out her shape and her swimming hazel eyes that pierce the blackness. They ask for nothing and they’ve just given everything.
All he can think about are her eyes.
They pierce dreams and nightmares alike and he wants to drown in them. He jerks up, kicking aside blankets. His eyes are open but hers don’t leave.
When she’s flying the ship or dancing or eating he tries to catch a glimpse of them. Sometimes they lock when he’s giving orders. He struggles to keep his speech from halting, the gap between brain and mouth severed with her stare. They comfort him when he’s lying in the infirmary with a bullet in his leg. When he craves flesh at night he sees her eyes. Eventually more than that.
His need to protect her has evolved into something his conscious mind doesn’t want to grapple with. His unconscious mind takes it and runs.
One night he’s drunk too much and heats protein coffee to try and clear his head. He slumps in a chair at the head of the table and takes an awful sip of the hazel mess. He cringes and there she is in the doorframe. She glides down the stairs and acknowledges him with a nod. She pours herself a cup and reaches into a cabinet.
At the table she sets down a tiny metal grate and a cinnamon stick. She grinds it against the grate and a fine powder piles on the table. She pinches some into his cup and her own. Mal stares into the speckled depths. His cup, her hazel and his breath hitches.
Lost in thought, she licks her finger and picks up several grains, gently placing them on the tip of her tongue. The move is so sensuous that his vision fuzzes and his heart pounds. There’s just a faint outline of cascading dark hair and soft skin. He takes a sip of coffee that now glides down his throat warm and sweet.
He sets the cup down and licks two fingers. Their hands brush above the cinnamon pile.
She blinks but the image that forms on contact holds. Two bodies entwined and she feels a rush of blood that makes her head light. She doesn’t know when, but it’s clear she wants it and he wants it, so it can’t be too far off.
She licks her finger again, but this time she hesitates. She’s not afraid of what she’ll see, she’s dreamt about it enough as it is, and she’s flooded her mind with his dreams of her. Being besieged by reality is more difficult. River is used to living in her head. Bringing herself out will require two people.
Hands brush again and her vision swims. Her voice, his name, tangled sheets…she breaks contact.
She looks up and their eyes meet. Two sets of black pupils scream the same need. She stands without breaking contact. He lets himself sink into the hazel. He blinks, fights through the haze and she waits for him to conclude, to grapple with morality and his staunch need to protect her. He stands. She waits for him to move, then tries to match him, to meet him equally. Prolonged contact breaks hesitation. Mutual need overwhelms and consents.
Their lips meet and he smells cinnamon, and they don’t close their eyes for several seconds. He wants to memorize their hue.
The hazel coffee cools on the table.
Let me know what you think!
(shameless plug: an eventual Mal/River post BDM multi-chapter WIP on ff.net. Serenity:Allegro.)
AUTHOR: Flannery Chalke
DISCLAIMER: It’s all from the mind of Joss Whedon, I’m just along for the ride.
RATING: 13+, implied sexuality
SUMMARY: All he can think about are her eyes.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: post BDM, reviews are fantastic!!
I took the prompt from ff_friday (color), but it morphed into something else.
Mal never sleeps well anymore, which is ironic because he’s finally found some peace he can live with. Protecting River Tam is as noble as 2000 odd troops, plus his odds are much better. The combat trained psychic doesn’t really need him, he knows this, but still, it’s the first truly honorable job he’s ever taken.
Broadcasting the signal on Miranda seals his fate, and he seals it willingly. Mal has a talent for pissing people off, but this time, the scale is too huge to comprehend. The entire Alliance wants him for treason and whatever else they can think up; his photo will be added to the bounty list with Simon and River.
He walks away from the broken Operative and the screams of an unknown doctor and all he can think about is River. He sealed his fate and hers and Simons because three people are easier to find than two, especially when one is the registered captain of a ship. He needs to find her and make sure she is alive. Everything else feels pointless if she isn’t.
In the dimly lit hallway he scans the bodies and counts four and panics. She is not here and the sounds from behind the closed blast door freeze his freely flowing blood. And then the blast door opens and she’s beautiful and bloody and victorious and exhausted. He can make out her shape and her swimming hazel eyes that pierce the blackness. They ask for nothing and they’ve just given everything.
All he can think about are her eyes.
They pierce dreams and nightmares alike and he wants to drown in them. He jerks up, kicking aside blankets. His eyes are open but hers don’t leave.
When she’s flying the ship or dancing or eating he tries to catch a glimpse of them. Sometimes they lock when he’s giving orders. He struggles to keep his speech from halting, the gap between brain and mouth severed with her stare. They comfort him when he’s lying in the infirmary with a bullet in his leg. When he craves flesh at night he sees her eyes. Eventually more than that.
His need to protect her has evolved into something his conscious mind doesn’t want to grapple with. His unconscious mind takes it and runs.
One night he’s drunk too much and heats protein coffee to try and clear his head. He slumps in a chair at the head of the table and takes an awful sip of the hazel mess. He cringes and there she is in the doorframe. She glides down the stairs and acknowledges him with a nod. She pours herself a cup and reaches into a cabinet.
At the table she sets down a tiny metal grate and a cinnamon stick. She grinds it against the grate and a fine powder piles on the table. She pinches some into his cup and her own. Mal stares into the speckled depths. His cup, her hazel and his breath hitches.
Lost in thought, she licks her finger and picks up several grains, gently placing them on the tip of her tongue. The move is so sensuous that his vision fuzzes and his heart pounds. There’s just a faint outline of cascading dark hair and soft skin. He takes a sip of coffee that now glides down his throat warm and sweet.
He sets the cup down and licks two fingers. Their hands brush above the cinnamon pile.
She blinks but the image that forms on contact holds. Two bodies entwined and she feels a rush of blood that makes her head light. She doesn’t know when, but it’s clear she wants it and he wants it, so it can’t be too far off.
She licks her finger again, but this time she hesitates. She’s not afraid of what she’ll see, she’s dreamt about it enough as it is, and she’s flooded her mind with his dreams of her. Being besieged by reality is more difficult. River is used to living in her head. Bringing herself out will require two people.
Hands brush again and her vision swims. Her voice, his name, tangled sheets…she breaks contact.
She looks up and their eyes meet. Two sets of black pupils scream the same need. She stands without breaking contact. He lets himself sink into the hazel. He blinks, fights through the haze and she waits for him to conclude, to grapple with morality and his staunch need to protect her. He stands. She waits for him to move, then tries to match him, to meet him equally. Prolonged contact breaks hesitation. Mutual need overwhelms and consents.
Their lips meet and he smells cinnamon, and they don’t close their eyes for several seconds. He wants to memorize their hue.
The hazel coffee cools on the table.
Let me know what you think!
(shameless plug: an eventual Mal/River post BDM multi-chapter WIP on ff.net. Serenity:Allegro.)