"But I Hear Those Voices at Night..."
Title: Les Etoiles
Fandom: Les Miserables AU
Characters/Pairings: Marius/Cosette, the assorted Amis. Feuilly/Bahorel.
For: bewareofitalics and estllechauvelin, for the Fic Drive.
Marius sighs and signals from the shuttle, bringing her around to the Leblanc’s docking bay. Cosette is writing override commands into the docking bay’s signal wiring even as he pulls the shuttle into a smooth curve and drives her hard towards the side of the Leblanc. A moment later the bay door opens and he makes an easy landing, sliding into place with hardly a sound.
He flips all the switches, shutting her down, and drops through the hatch in her belly into the hangar, landing in a crouch. When he looks up, Cosette is smiling from the personnel entrance, her black coder’s jumpsuit the best thing he’s seen in days.
“You made it!”
“Courfeyrac’s covering for me.”
“Papa’s taken a shore mission on Huron. He won’t be back until 23:00 hours. Come on!”
Marius watches her walk, following her into the Leblanc. She moves gracefully, like a star on its course, bright and dancing. Even when she’s disobeying her father, she can’t be dampened too much by guilt, and when she turns to be sure he’s there her smile makes his heart tremble. Her dark curls are cropped short for working, but he’s filled with the urge to run his hands through her hair anyway.
“What about the rest of the crew?”
“Nobody cares what I do. Nobody notices. Honestly, Marius, I’m not the centre of the universe.”
He laughs, uncertainly, but she catches his hand in hers and pulls him towards quarters.
---
“He’s really sick, sir,” Courfeyrac says, calm as a planet without atmo. The Guardsman eyes him suspiciously. “I swear to heaven, sir. Filled a bucket and I’ll have to clean the sheets.”
Joly looks pained and nudges Bossuet’s shoulder. “And I’ll probably get it too,” she says in an undertone.
“You, Ensign, be quiet!”
“He was sorry he couldn’t be on duty. He begged me to apologise on his behalf, sir.”
“He’s still getting a black mark on the books, Ensign,” the Guardsman says. “You’re all dismissed. Get to your stations and wait on orders.”
Enjolras leans over to Combeferre. “I’m telling you, it’s unconscionable. When Captain Lamarque dies, we’re all done for. Nobody’s going to keep them in check; the Ensigns are going to be trampled on. I’m not just talking about us. This ship’s full of men and women, and it can’t be borne what’s going to happen to them.”
Combeferre adjusts her glasses and pulls on the blue gloves that go with their matching jumpsuits: science uniform. “Yes, I understand that, but mutiny?”
“If it’s well-organised we’ll be able to take command easily. I don’t see why we shouldn’t.”
“It’s going to take a damned lot of planning. Well-organised isn’t the word.”
“We’ll have planning. I’ve already talked to Courfeyrac. I know he’s frivolous, but he’s serious about that. I need your help.”
“Of course I’m going to help,” she snaps. “I always help you. That’s not the point.”
“I’m taking every precaution. Face it, the upper ranks of Security are insane, they’re power-drunk, and something has to be done. I’m willing to do it.”
“I’ll talk to Feuilly and Bahorel. I know they’re both unhappy with the way things are being run. Guardsmen aren’t supposed to have influence over engineers and they’re chafing.”
“Good. Thanks.”
---
“So where is Pontmercy?”
“He’s off-ship, the silly bastard.” Courfeyrac rolls his eyes, not moving his gaze from the dash panel in front of him.
“What a fool.”
“He’s no more a fool than you are. I can’t keep covering for you either, so for God’s sake stop showing up drunk. You’re just lucky I can pilot this damned ship by myself.”
Grantaire heaves a sigh and taps the controls. “You say the unkindest things.”
“You’re putting us off-course.”
“I am not.”
“You just changed our degree of orbit.” He fiddles with a dial, leaning over Grantaire to readjust a screen.
“You smell like honeysuckle.”
“You don’t know what honeysuckle smells like, and you’ve forgotten how to flirt.”
“You’re the one who brought me onto this heap in the first place.”
“Shut up,” Courfeyrac says gently. “You’re drunk. Let me do my job and just pretend to do yours.”
---
Joly hugs her knees to her chest and closes her eyes, spinning her chair from side to side. “We aren’t going to have any communications. They’re in negotiations down there, they don’t care.”
“Shhh, I’m picking something up.”
“You are not. I don’t hear anything.”
“It’s not from the planet. Shut up.” Bossuet turns the frequency dial, tuning for the signal. “This is the PFS Patria, I’m Ensign L’Aigle.”
The voice comes through crackly, but clear enough that Joly sits straight up in her chair. “Bossuet! It’s Pontmercy. I can’t get the shuttle to start. For God’s sake someone get Feuilly.”
“That idiot,” Joly hisses, flipping the intercom for the engine room. “This is Communications to Engine Control, requesting Ensign Feuilly for consulting.”
“This is Ensign Feuilly, what’s the trouble?”
“Requesting your presence,” she says. “Come on, Feuilly.”
“Wait, it’s you? Fuck you anyway, I’m busy.”
“Dammit! Is your senior officer down there?”
“Yes, but he’s across the room.”
“Pontmercy stranded a shuttle on some other ship. Please come up and figure out what’s wrong.”
“He deserves it for sneaking off.”
“I’ll tell Bahorel I saw you flirting with Courfeyrac at dinner yesterday, see how he likes that.”
“He won’t care.”
“I’ll tell him I saw you fondling somebody else’s engine when we docked on Alpha Centauri last month.”
“Fuck!”
“Now get up here.”
The intercom clicks off and ten minutes later they can hear Feuilly’s boots thudding down the hall. Half a moment after that she comes skidding into the Communications room, grabbing a wall to stop herself. She’s wearing a green jumpsuit and a crewcut, standard for engineers. “Here!”
“Thank God. Talk him through.”
She grabs the transmitter from Bossuet. “What the fuck did you do, Pontmercy?”
“I don’t know! The shuttle won’t start!”
“Has she got fuel?”
“I’m not that stupid.”
“Check the pressure gauge.”
“Steady.”
“All right, look in the middle of the panel.”
“Top or bottom?” His voice goes high with panic.
“Bottom. What’s your problem? Courfeyrac said he covered you for the day, and they only check the shuttle dock once a day.”
“Her father’s coming back!”
“You’re fucking stupid. All right, there’s a bunch of green dials, then a blue one.”
“Got it.”
“Is the blue one lit?”
“It’s lit.”
“That’s what I thought. Go back to the navigation panel.”
“Got it. I got it.”
“Type in the realignment passcode. It’s 1832 on all these old shuttles. Then start her up again.”
“…One… Eight… Three… Two, got it! Oh, God, she started. I owe you. Thank God. Thank you.”
Feuilly turns to Bossuet. “How d’you turn these damn things off?”
“Like this,” she says, flicking it off. “What did he do?”
“He stalled her,” grimly. “Because he’s a grade-A moron. I’m going back to work.”
---
“Hey, what’d they need up in Comms?”
“Pontmercy stalled his fucking shuttle and didn’t know how to realign.”
Bahorel leans back against a pipe and laughs. “I guess he’s new.”
“It’s not that hard to work a shuttle.”
“Green recruit, baby.”
“He’d better learn. Next time I won’t bail him out.” She settles beside him, then leans over and kisses his cheek. Bahorel slips an arm around her waist. “Nothing exciting going on down here, huh?”
“Same as it was when you left.”
“Chief around?”
“Around. Probably wants us to get started on that compression coil.”
“Better get going, then.”
“We better.” He draws her forward and kisses her, running a hand over her short hair, rubbing a grease stain off her cheek with his thumb. “All right.”
Feuilly smiles.
---
Up in the coder’s room, Prouvaire is sitting by himself, typing and retyping poetry. A ship as large and well-run as the Patria doesn’t use its coders much, but, he figures, that gives him more time to work on this love poem, for one of the medical assistants down on the science floor. She doesn’t notice him now, but with luck--
He’s always fallen in love with medical assistants. He doesn’t know why. Perhaps it’s just that they’re so smart and so skilful, and he can’t help feeling passionate about a woman who could cut him to pieces and analyse his every part, then sew him back up again and call it a day’s work.
Anyway, Ana is perfect, and his poem should be too. He turns to the triffid on his desk, a juvenile that sleeps in a plant pot and eats freeze-dried protein chunks. “Rhymes for paragon?”
It hums in answer.
---
Marius gets back to the Patria later than he meant to, between the shuttle scare and a little wandering on the return trip--he should have been more careful, but there’s a small asteroid belt near Huron and he wanted to see it--but he docks the shuttle without any trouble and sneaks back to his quarters.
Courfeyrac’s excuse means he’s better off staying here for the rest of the day, so he curls up in his bunk, unzipping the yellow navigator’s jumpsuit to the waist. He means to rest for a little while and then maybe read some, or do something useful, or maybe just daydream about Cosette (they held hands for a whole hour on board the Leblanc) but instead he falls asleep.
He doesn’t wake up until evening, when Courfeyrac comes in and shakes him awake with a hand on his shoulder.
“Hey, lover-boy. Did you have any luck?”
“It was wonderful,” he says fervently.
---
Title: Carol
Fandom: Firefly
Characters/Pairings: Kaylee, Mal, Simon, River, Jayne.
For: lady_moriel, same as above.
“Aw, come on, Captain. You know it ain’t no more a fire hazard than this whole ship is,” Kaylee says, laughing in that indulgent way she has when she knows Mal’s going to give in to what she wants anyway and it doesn’t really matter whether she argues or not. He tries to glower at her.
“No means no, Kaylee. You ain’t putting a tree in here.”
“Just a little one.”
“Not in the engine room. No.”
“I ain’t had a real Christmas since I was a little girl living on-planet.”
“You just want that fancy city doctor to have to get you a present.”
She grins. “You think he would?”
“Maybe. I’ll break his arm if he don’t.”
“You can’t just go around breakin’ everybody’s arms. That’s why no one likes you.”
“What do you mean, no one likes me? Everybody likes me. Zoë likes me.”
“’Course she does, you’re her captain.”
“Anyway, you ain’t getting a tree.”
“How about in the kitchen? We could have a little tree in the kitchen.”
“What would we do with it?”
“Look at it. It’d be real pretty.”
“Where’d we get it?”
“Well, we could steal one. You like stealin’ stuff anyway.”
“I do not--what. That is a bold accusation. I like doing jobs. I like having work that makes me money.”
“I’m gonna ask Shepherd Book. He’ll agree with me.”
“He’s biased!”
“Just a little one.”
“But not in the engine room.”
Kaylee salutes, grinning so big it looks like the grin is going to up and eat her face. Her cheeks are glowing, or maybe it’s just the smear of grease.
---
“That is beautiful.” The Shepherd stands back to look at their tree. It’s a meagre, crooked, synthetic one; Mal got it cheap on Omicron-Zeta-3 in exchange for a half-block of protein and a convincing speech about hard times and pirates and certain people being lucky to get any kind of payment at all. Kaylee and Inara have it glittering with Inara’s earrings, hung on the less pathetic branches, and the doctor even made a star out of yellow grafting foam.
“Looks like shit to me,” Jayne says, chewing on one of the dropped needles. “Tastes like shit, too. What did they use for this synth, my gramma’s dog?”
“You ain’t supposed to eat the tree, Jayne!”
Mal hears the thud of the boots even before River gets to the door, standing a few steps above the rest of the crew and watching them with those big eyes of hers.
“They’re just symbols.”
Everyone turns to look at her.
“They replicate meanings, not accuracies. Truth isn’t fact. Everybody knows that. If you follow a star into Bethlehem nobody guarantees you’ll find a baby. You’re just looking for baby essence. Sell it in little jars. Burn it off with candles in it.”
“River?” The doctor starts towards her, holding out a hand for her to take. “Do you like the tree?”
But River turns towards Mal, lifting her hand. Her thumb and her last two fingers are folded in, the other two fingers extended. “The Angel of the Lord appeared to Joseph in a dream and counselled him, saying, do not be afraid, but take Mary as your wife, for the child in her womb is the child of God.”
“Ain’t that reassuring.”
“Do not be afraid. Someday I’ll be a truth instead of a fact, Joseph.” Then she bobs forward and kisses his cheek, and spins around to face the doctor. “Now you have to get Kaylee a present, Simon.”
Mal just stands still. “Was that good?” he asks nobody in particular.
---
Title: Off-Planet
Fandom: Firefly, Arthurian legend
Characters/Pairings: Inara, Mal, Laurel
For: skaryma, as above.
“I have to go. It doesn’t matter where any more. I just need to go off-planet.”
The woman is thin and hard-faced, her yellow hair bound up on her head into an untidy pile that strays into her eyes. Her mouth is a line pressed close, and while she’s dressed well enough to have some kind of money she looks like a working lady. She does business like a parts dealer, too, making Mal wish he had Kaylee along to help him bargain.
“I’ve been burned by passengers of late. What are you offerin’ to make this worth the trouble it’s gonna cost me?”
“I have coin. I’ll pay you what you deserve.”
“Seems to me I should be hearin’ a straight offer, seeing as I’m the one has what you want.”
“You want what I have, too.” Her mouth sets harder. “Your ship’s nothing special, I certainly won’t be spending any money for luxury.”
“If my ship ain’t good enough for you, why are you trying to get on it?”
“Listen, sir, you’re the first ship that’s come by this miserable backwater planet in four years,” she snaps, and he catches a glimpse of something raw and hurting in her face for a split-second before she realises it and shutters it away, as swift and skilful as Wash manoeuvring Mal’s beautiful ship into a hard curve.
He lets out a laugh. “Oh, I see. You don’t know when you might be gettin’ another chance to get off. Well, you listen here, ma’am, I don’t intend to get into trouble for not enough coin to rattle in a can. You tell me up front what you’re paying and for what and we’ll see about lettin’ you onto my ship which ain’t nothing special.”
The woman folds her arms. “All right. I’ll tell you something. I haven’t been off this damned planet for six years, and in that time my husband’s visited me four times, stinking of other women. He can’t look me in the face. I keep his ranch and mind his cattle, for which he repays me by not breaking my heart as often as he gets the opportunity. And I’m paying in bullion. I want to leave.”
“Bullion’ll do,” Mal says.
---
Her first night on Serenity she does the dishes after supper, standing in the galley in her plain linen dress, her untidy hair making a strange silhouette in the light. Inara waits until everyone else is gone before she approaches.
“Your dress--that’s not synthetic.”
“What? Oh, no, we get real cloth on Manassah.”
“That’s wonderful. The only thing I can get real any more is silk, and it certainly comes at a price.”
The woman looks over at her and half-smiles. In the galley light her face looks even more worn than it did at dinner. “It still comes at a price, but I’m a businesswoman.”
“I didn’t get your name.”
“Laurel.”
“That’s pretty.”
“Thanks. Inara?”
“Yes.”
“Heard it at dinner.”
“Where are you going to?”
“I don’t care. The first planet you stop at. I’m not going to do much, anyway. Spend some of this money I’ve spent the last seven years earning, do some things I regret, go back home again.”
“Why not keep going?”
“What’ll that get me? I have a business on Manassah. It’s steady. Protein’s always in demand. Anyway, I loved him since the day I married him. I wouldn’t leave him.”
“But you must be so lonely.”
“Who isn’t?” She looks at Inara bluntly. “Everybody makes a compromise somewhere.”
Inara hesitates. She isn’t used to having women patrons, not in the usual way of things, and she isn’t in the habit of making the overture--her patrons come to her, apply to her, for the privilege of a night. But it’s not a matter of pride; only of familiarity. She reaches out and rests her hand on Laurel’s arm.
“Mal probably told you that I’m a Companion.”
“Not so charitably,” Laurel says, the corner of her mouth quirking. Inara rolls her eyes.
“Of course not. But no one says you have to be lonely all the time.”
“You offering?”
“Yes.”
“He doesn’t care whether I’m faithful or not. I tried to make him jealous at first to see if he loved me. Didn’t work. He doesn’t care.”
“Then there’s no harm in someone keeping you company for a few nights.” She pauses. “Why don’t you come back to my shuttle? At least I’ll make you some tea, and you can have a hot bath. You don’t have to let me make love to you.”
“Thanks. That sounds wonderful.”
---
Laurel’s muscles are cramped and knotted, and her body is hard, but Inara is used to massage, and her fingers are good at it. She kneels beside Laurel with her tray of oils, lavender, rose, cinnamon, clove.
“God, that feels good.”
“I hope so. I spent over two years learning these techniques.”
“Was the schooling hard?”
“I had an aptitude for it. That helped.”
Laurel twists around to look at her. Inara hadn’t realised it until now, looking at her naked body, but she’s a young woman, not past thirty. The weariness is all in her face.
“How did you meet your husband?” Inara asks, unable to stop herself.
“My cousins married his brothers. I met him at the wedding.” Laurel lets out her breath. “My cousin Lyonors was fighting off a fellow who wanted to marry her, and his brother Gareth lent a hand. While they were doing that, his brother Gaheris met my cousin Lynette, and they turned out to be soulmates. I guess I just thought there was a lot of luck between our two families, and everybody was getting married, and Agravain and I were both pretty drunk. We thought it was a wonderful idea. And then the honeymoon wore off and he grounded me on Manassah and went back to his brothers.”
“He left you.”
“He left me. So much for noble impulses.” She’s looking away, but Inara can still somehow tell that she’s crying. She pauses in her work, and Laurel rolls over on her side, rising on her elbow, her face wet. “Don’t tell me that tragic story of true love narrowly avoided gets to you.”
Inara takes Laurel’s face in her hands and kisses her, as gently as she can. She’s not sure what she expects her reaction to be, but Laurel draws away.
“It’s all right. I’m fine.”
---
They leave her at Ouros, not a moment too soon for Mal. Bullion or no, she bothers him, and it bothers him even more the way she always did the dishes and helped clean the galley and spent too much time with Inara.
He wouldn’t admit to himself that he’s jealous, of Inara or anybody else, but it doesn’t sit well with him, and he’s not sorry to see her go. Inara stands beside him at the bay door, a silk shawl wrapped around her shoulders, her thick black hair falling in loose curls down her back, not that he pays attention to that kind of thing.
“I hope she finds some sort of happiness.”
“I hope she doesn’t want us for her trip back.”
The look Inara turns on him is almost sad, and Mal raises his eyebrows in self-defence, trying to figure out the reason behind it. Finally he settles for saying,--
“Maybe she’ll have better luck here.”
Fandom: Les Miserables AU
Characters/Pairings: Marius/Cosette, the assorted Amis. Feuilly/Bahorel.
For: bewareofitalics and estllechauvelin, for the Fic Drive.
Marius sighs and signals from the shuttle, bringing her around to the Leblanc’s docking bay. Cosette is writing override commands into the docking bay’s signal wiring even as he pulls the shuttle into a smooth curve and drives her hard towards the side of the Leblanc. A moment later the bay door opens and he makes an easy landing, sliding into place with hardly a sound.
He flips all the switches, shutting her down, and drops through the hatch in her belly into the hangar, landing in a crouch. When he looks up, Cosette is smiling from the personnel entrance, her black coder’s jumpsuit the best thing he’s seen in days.
“You made it!”
“Courfeyrac’s covering for me.”
“Papa’s taken a shore mission on Huron. He won’t be back until 23:00 hours. Come on!”
Marius watches her walk, following her into the Leblanc. She moves gracefully, like a star on its course, bright and dancing. Even when she’s disobeying her father, she can’t be dampened too much by guilt, and when she turns to be sure he’s there her smile makes his heart tremble. Her dark curls are cropped short for working, but he’s filled with the urge to run his hands through her hair anyway.
“What about the rest of the crew?”
“Nobody cares what I do. Nobody notices. Honestly, Marius, I’m not the centre of the universe.”
He laughs, uncertainly, but she catches his hand in hers and pulls him towards quarters.
---
“He’s really sick, sir,” Courfeyrac says, calm as a planet without atmo. The Guardsman eyes him suspiciously. “I swear to heaven, sir. Filled a bucket and I’ll have to clean the sheets.”
Joly looks pained and nudges Bossuet’s shoulder. “And I’ll probably get it too,” she says in an undertone.
“You, Ensign, be quiet!”
“He was sorry he couldn’t be on duty. He begged me to apologise on his behalf, sir.”
“He’s still getting a black mark on the books, Ensign,” the Guardsman says. “You’re all dismissed. Get to your stations and wait on orders.”
Enjolras leans over to Combeferre. “I’m telling you, it’s unconscionable. When Captain Lamarque dies, we’re all done for. Nobody’s going to keep them in check; the Ensigns are going to be trampled on. I’m not just talking about us. This ship’s full of men and women, and it can’t be borne what’s going to happen to them.”
Combeferre adjusts her glasses and pulls on the blue gloves that go with their matching jumpsuits: science uniform. “Yes, I understand that, but mutiny?”
“If it’s well-organised we’ll be able to take command easily. I don’t see why we shouldn’t.”
“It’s going to take a damned lot of planning. Well-organised isn’t the word.”
“We’ll have planning. I’ve already talked to Courfeyrac. I know he’s frivolous, but he’s serious about that. I need your help.”
“Of course I’m going to help,” she snaps. “I always help you. That’s not the point.”
“I’m taking every precaution. Face it, the upper ranks of Security are insane, they’re power-drunk, and something has to be done. I’m willing to do it.”
“I’ll talk to Feuilly and Bahorel. I know they’re both unhappy with the way things are being run. Guardsmen aren’t supposed to have influence over engineers and they’re chafing.”
“Good. Thanks.”
---
“So where is Pontmercy?”
“He’s off-ship, the silly bastard.” Courfeyrac rolls his eyes, not moving his gaze from the dash panel in front of him.
“What a fool.”
“He’s no more a fool than you are. I can’t keep covering for you either, so for God’s sake stop showing up drunk. You’re just lucky I can pilot this damned ship by myself.”
Grantaire heaves a sigh and taps the controls. “You say the unkindest things.”
“You’re putting us off-course.”
“I am not.”
“You just changed our degree of orbit.” He fiddles with a dial, leaning over Grantaire to readjust a screen.
“You smell like honeysuckle.”
“You don’t know what honeysuckle smells like, and you’ve forgotten how to flirt.”
“You’re the one who brought me onto this heap in the first place.”
“Shut up,” Courfeyrac says gently. “You’re drunk. Let me do my job and just pretend to do yours.”
---
Joly hugs her knees to her chest and closes her eyes, spinning her chair from side to side. “We aren’t going to have any communications. They’re in negotiations down there, they don’t care.”
“Shhh, I’m picking something up.”
“You are not. I don’t hear anything.”
“It’s not from the planet. Shut up.” Bossuet turns the frequency dial, tuning for the signal. “This is the PFS Patria, I’m Ensign L’Aigle.”
The voice comes through crackly, but clear enough that Joly sits straight up in her chair. “Bossuet! It’s Pontmercy. I can’t get the shuttle to start. For God’s sake someone get Feuilly.”
“That idiot,” Joly hisses, flipping the intercom for the engine room. “This is Communications to Engine Control, requesting Ensign Feuilly for consulting.”
“This is Ensign Feuilly, what’s the trouble?”
“Requesting your presence,” she says. “Come on, Feuilly.”
“Wait, it’s you? Fuck you anyway, I’m busy.”
“Dammit! Is your senior officer down there?”
“Yes, but he’s across the room.”
“Pontmercy stranded a shuttle on some other ship. Please come up and figure out what’s wrong.”
“He deserves it for sneaking off.”
“I’ll tell Bahorel I saw you flirting with Courfeyrac at dinner yesterday, see how he likes that.”
“He won’t care.”
“I’ll tell him I saw you fondling somebody else’s engine when we docked on Alpha Centauri last month.”
“Fuck!”
“Now get up here.”
The intercom clicks off and ten minutes later they can hear Feuilly’s boots thudding down the hall. Half a moment after that she comes skidding into the Communications room, grabbing a wall to stop herself. She’s wearing a green jumpsuit and a crewcut, standard for engineers. “Here!”
“Thank God. Talk him through.”
She grabs the transmitter from Bossuet. “What the fuck did you do, Pontmercy?”
“I don’t know! The shuttle won’t start!”
“Has she got fuel?”
“I’m not that stupid.”
“Check the pressure gauge.”
“Steady.”
“All right, look in the middle of the panel.”
“Top or bottom?” His voice goes high with panic.
“Bottom. What’s your problem? Courfeyrac said he covered you for the day, and they only check the shuttle dock once a day.”
“Her father’s coming back!”
“You’re fucking stupid. All right, there’s a bunch of green dials, then a blue one.”
“Got it.”
“Is the blue one lit?”
“It’s lit.”
“That’s what I thought. Go back to the navigation panel.”
“Got it. I got it.”
“Type in the realignment passcode. It’s 1832 on all these old shuttles. Then start her up again.”
“…One… Eight… Three… Two, got it! Oh, God, she started. I owe you. Thank God. Thank you.”
Feuilly turns to Bossuet. “How d’you turn these damn things off?”
“Like this,” she says, flicking it off. “What did he do?”
“He stalled her,” grimly. “Because he’s a grade-A moron. I’m going back to work.”
---
“Hey, what’d they need up in Comms?”
“Pontmercy stalled his fucking shuttle and didn’t know how to realign.”
Bahorel leans back against a pipe and laughs. “I guess he’s new.”
“It’s not that hard to work a shuttle.”
“Green recruit, baby.”
“He’d better learn. Next time I won’t bail him out.” She settles beside him, then leans over and kisses his cheek. Bahorel slips an arm around her waist. “Nothing exciting going on down here, huh?”
“Same as it was when you left.”
“Chief around?”
“Around. Probably wants us to get started on that compression coil.”
“Better get going, then.”
“We better.” He draws her forward and kisses her, running a hand over her short hair, rubbing a grease stain off her cheek with his thumb. “All right.”
Feuilly smiles.
---
Up in the coder’s room, Prouvaire is sitting by himself, typing and retyping poetry. A ship as large and well-run as the Patria doesn’t use its coders much, but, he figures, that gives him more time to work on this love poem, for one of the medical assistants down on the science floor. She doesn’t notice him now, but with luck--
He’s always fallen in love with medical assistants. He doesn’t know why. Perhaps it’s just that they’re so smart and so skilful, and he can’t help feeling passionate about a woman who could cut him to pieces and analyse his every part, then sew him back up again and call it a day’s work.
Anyway, Ana is perfect, and his poem should be too. He turns to the triffid on his desk, a juvenile that sleeps in a plant pot and eats freeze-dried protein chunks. “Rhymes for paragon?”
It hums in answer.
---
Marius gets back to the Patria later than he meant to, between the shuttle scare and a little wandering on the return trip--he should have been more careful, but there’s a small asteroid belt near Huron and he wanted to see it--but he docks the shuttle without any trouble and sneaks back to his quarters.
Courfeyrac’s excuse means he’s better off staying here for the rest of the day, so he curls up in his bunk, unzipping the yellow navigator’s jumpsuit to the waist. He means to rest for a little while and then maybe read some, or do something useful, or maybe just daydream about Cosette (they held hands for a whole hour on board the Leblanc) but instead he falls asleep.
He doesn’t wake up until evening, when Courfeyrac comes in and shakes him awake with a hand on his shoulder.
“Hey, lover-boy. Did you have any luck?”
“It was wonderful,” he says fervently.
---
Title: Carol
Fandom: Firefly
Characters/Pairings: Kaylee, Mal, Simon, River, Jayne.
For: lady_moriel, same as above.
“Aw, come on, Captain. You know it ain’t no more a fire hazard than this whole ship is,” Kaylee says, laughing in that indulgent way she has when she knows Mal’s going to give in to what she wants anyway and it doesn’t really matter whether she argues or not. He tries to glower at her.
“No means no, Kaylee. You ain’t putting a tree in here.”
“Just a little one.”
“Not in the engine room. No.”
“I ain’t had a real Christmas since I was a little girl living on-planet.”
“You just want that fancy city doctor to have to get you a present.”
She grins. “You think he would?”
“Maybe. I’ll break his arm if he don’t.”
“You can’t just go around breakin’ everybody’s arms. That’s why no one likes you.”
“What do you mean, no one likes me? Everybody likes me. Zoë likes me.”
“’Course she does, you’re her captain.”
“Anyway, you ain’t getting a tree.”
“How about in the kitchen? We could have a little tree in the kitchen.”
“What would we do with it?”
“Look at it. It’d be real pretty.”
“Where’d we get it?”
“Well, we could steal one. You like stealin’ stuff anyway.”
“I do not--what. That is a bold accusation. I like doing jobs. I like having work that makes me money.”
“I’m gonna ask Shepherd Book. He’ll agree with me.”
“He’s biased!”
“Just a little one.”
“But not in the engine room.”
Kaylee salutes, grinning so big it looks like the grin is going to up and eat her face. Her cheeks are glowing, or maybe it’s just the smear of grease.
---
“That is beautiful.” The Shepherd stands back to look at their tree. It’s a meagre, crooked, synthetic one; Mal got it cheap on Omicron-Zeta-3 in exchange for a half-block of protein and a convincing speech about hard times and pirates and certain people being lucky to get any kind of payment at all. Kaylee and Inara have it glittering with Inara’s earrings, hung on the less pathetic branches, and the doctor even made a star out of yellow grafting foam.
“Looks like shit to me,” Jayne says, chewing on one of the dropped needles. “Tastes like shit, too. What did they use for this synth, my gramma’s dog?”
“You ain’t supposed to eat the tree, Jayne!”
Mal hears the thud of the boots even before River gets to the door, standing a few steps above the rest of the crew and watching them with those big eyes of hers.
“They’re just symbols.”
Everyone turns to look at her.
“They replicate meanings, not accuracies. Truth isn’t fact. Everybody knows that. If you follow a star into Bethlehem nobody guarantees you’ll find a baby. You’re just looking for baby essence. Sell it in little jars. Burn it off with candles in it.”
“River?” The doctor starts towards her, holding out a hand for her to take. “Do you like the tree?”
But River turns towards Mal, lifting her hand. Her thumb and her last two fingers are folded in, the other two fingers extended. “The Angel of the Lord appeared to Joseph in a dream and counselled him, saying, do not be afraid, but take Mary as your wife, for the child in her womb is the child of God.”
“Ain’t that reassuring.”
“Do not be afraid. Someday I’ll be a truth instead of a fact, Joseph.” Then she bobs forward and kisses his cheek, and spins around to face the doctor. “Now you have to get Kaylee a present, Simon.”
Mal just stands still. “Was that good?” he asks nobody in particular.
---
Title: Off-Planet
Fandom: Firefly, Arthurian legend
Characters/Pairings: Inara, Mal, Laurel
For: skaryma, as above.
“I have to go. It doesn’t matter where any more. I just need to go off-planet.”
The woman is thin and hard-faced, her yellow hair bound up on her head into an untidy pile that strays into her eyes. Her mouth is a line pressed close, and while she’s dressed well enough to have some kind of money she looks like a working lady. She does business like a parts dealer, too, making Mal wish he had Kaylee along to help him bargain.
“I’ve been burned by passengers of late. What are you offerin’ to make this worth the trouble it’s gonna cost me?”
“I have coin. I’ll pay you what you deserve.”
“Seems to me I should be hearin’ a straight offer, seeing as I’m the one has what you want.”
“You want what I have, too.” Her mouth sets harder. “Your ship’s nothing special, I certainly won’t be spending any money for luxury.”
“If my ship ain’t good enough for you, why are you trying to get on it?”
“Listen, sir, you’re the first ship that’s come by this miserable backwater planet in four years,” she snaps, and he catches a glimpse of something raw and hurting in her face for a split-second before she realises it and shutters it away, as swift and skilful as Wash manoeuvring Mal’s beautiful ship into a hard curve.
He lets out a laugh. “Oh, I see. You don’t know when you might be gettin’ another chance to get off. Well, you listen here, ma’am, I don’t intend to get into trouble for not enough coin to rattle in a can. You tell me up front what you’re paying and for what and we’ll see about lettin’ you onto my ship which ain’t nothing special.”
The woman folds her arms. “All right. I’ll tell you something. I haven’t been off this damned planet for six years, and in that time my husband’s visited me four times, stinking of other women. He can’t look me in the face. I keep his ranch and mind his cattle, for which he repays me by not breaking my heart as often as he gets the opportunity. And I’m paying in bullion. I want to leave.”
“Bullion’ll do,” Mal says.
---
Her first night on Serenity she does the dishes after supper, standing in the galley in her plain linen dress, her untidy hair making a strange silhouette in the light. Inara waits until everyone else is gone before she approaches.
“Your dress--that’s not synthetic.”
“What? Oh, no, we get real cloth on Manassah.”
“That’s wonderful. The only thing I can get real any more is silk, and it certainly comes at a price.”
The woman looks over at her and half-smiles. In the galley light her face looks even more worn than it did at dinner. “It still comes at a price, but I’m a businesswoman.”
“I didn’t get your name.”
“Laurel.”
“That’s pretty.”
“Thanks. Inara?”
“Yes.”
“Heard it at dinner.”
“Where are you going to?”
“I don’t care. The first planet you stop at. I’m not going to do much, anyway. Spend some of this money I’ve spent the last seven years earning, do some things I regret, go back home again.”
“Why not keep going?”
“What’ll that get me? I have a business on Manassah. It’s steady. Protein’s always in demand. Anyway, I loved him since the day I married him. I wouldn’t leave him.”
“But you must be so lonely.”
“Who isn’t?” She looks at Inara bluntly. “Everybody makes a compromise somewhere.”
Inara hesitates. She isn’t used to having women patrons, not in the usual way of things, and she isn’t in the habit of making the overture--her patrons come to her, apply to her, for the privilege of a night. But it’s not a matter of pride; only of familiarity. She reaches out and rests her hand on Laurel’s arm.
“Mal probably told you that I’m a Companion.”
“Not so charitably,” Laurel says, the corner of her mouth quirking. Inara rolls her eyes.
“Of course not. But no one says you have to be lonely all the time.”
“You offering?”
“Yes.”
“He doesn’t care whether I’m faithful or not. I tried to make him jealous at first to see if he loved me. Didn’t work. He doesn’t care.”
“Then there’s no harm in someone keeping you company for a few nights.” She pauses. “Why don’t you come back to my shuttle? At least I’ll make you some tea, and you can have a hot bath. You don’t have to let me make love to you.”
“Thanks. That sounds wonderful.”
---
Laurel’s muscles are cramped and knotted, and her body is hard, but Inara is used to massage, and her fingers are good at it. She kneels beside Laurel with her tray of oils, lavender, rose, cinnamon, clove.
“God, that feels good.”
“I hope so. I spent over two years learning these techniques.”
“Was the schooling hard?”
“I had an aptitude for it. That helped.”
Laurel twists around to look at her. Inara hadn’t realised it until now, looking at her naked body, but she’s a young woman, not past thirty. The weariness is all in her face.
“How did you meet your husband?” Inara asks, unable to stop herself.
“My cousins married his brothers. I met him at the wedding.” Laurel lets out her breath. “My cousin Lyonors was fighting off a fellow who wanted to marry her, and his brother Gareth lent a hand. While they were doing that, his brother Gaheris met my cousin Lynette, and they turned out to be soulmates. I guess I just thought there was a lot of luck between our two families, and everybody was getting married, and Agravain and I were both pretty drunk. We thought it was a wonderful idea. And then the honeymoon wore off and he grounded me on Manassah and went back to his brothers.”
“He left you.”
“He left me. So much for noble impulses.” She’s looking away, but Inara can still somehow tell that she’s crying. She pauses in her work, and Laurel rolls over on her side, rising on her elbow, her face wet. “Don’t tell me that tragic story of true love narrowly avoided gets to you.”
Inara takes Laurel’s face in her hands and kisses her, as gently as she can. She’s not sure what she expects her reaction to be, but Laurel draws away.
“It’s all right. I’m fine.”
---
They leave her at Ouros, not a moment too soon for Mal. Bullion or no, she bothers him, and it bothers him even more the way she always did the dishes and helped clean the galley and spent too much time with Inara.
He wouldn’t admit to himself that he’s jealous, of Inara or anybody else, but it doesn’t sit well with him, and he’s not sorry to see her go. Inara stands beside him at the bay door, a silk shawl wrapped around her shoulders, her thick black hair falling in loose curls down her back, not that he pays attention to that kind of thing.
“I hope she finds some sort of happiness.”
“I hope she doesn’t want us for her trip back.”
The look Inara turns on him is almost sad, and Mal raises his eyebrows in self-defence, trying to figure out the reason behind it. Finally he settles for saying,--
“Maybe she’ll have better luck here.”