Fic: Khamsin (Firefly, River CSI) PG 1/1
*squirms* It's because River's so fucked up, ok?
Title: Khamsin
Author: tigerlady
Fandom: Firefly
Pairing: not really but it's crazy space incest (that means River/Simon)
Summary: River's ice; Simon's not.
Notes: Written for a challenge on light_it. Khamsin: A generally southerly hot wind from the Sahara that blows across Egypt from late March to early May.
He burns hot, his presence like the summer wind, gusting across the desert bareness of the ship. River basks in his warmth. She is always ice, inside and out, the vacuum of space eating her insides like a black hole out of control-except when he melts it away with his presence. She can feel it even from her own room, waking her from deadly dreams and realities where she is not here. It draws her against all laws of thermodynamics; heat should flow to absence of heat, not the other way around.
She cannot sleep, not when plans race through her head, pushing to become actualities. So she stalks through the ship. The ship, the only one that matters. Serenity: ghost of a place that's better off not remembered, echo of a sensation no one seems to grasp. It is silent at night, her footsteps unheard by anyone but her own ears. If a girl screams in an empty forest, does she exist without anyone to slice her brain?
The galley is dark, hiding its treasures from little mice sneaking for a treat. River is not a mouse tonight. She steps up, walks along the hall of the crew quarters, neat little cages sealed up tight. Safe as houses, snug in their beds with sugar plums performing perfect pirouettes. River smiles. No Early wake-up call tonight.
She dances to the bridge. Serenity's brain; reflection of her own. Wires patched back and forth over scarred places that no longer work: it functions anyway. Wash makes Serenity fly like there was never any damage. Glancing at the flickering lights, she can see that Serenity does not need her. She flies just as Wash instructed, no other medicine needed.
River needs a pilot. But she has none, and so she spins back down the hall. One little, two little, three little Indians. She counts them all, nine little Indians if she counts herself. And she must, otherwise the numbers would lose their meaning. Numbers must have meaning, or she has none herself.
River dances, River stalks, River flows back down the back stairs, satisfied that this world is the right place for what she intends. She pauses at the infirmary, shudders at the stink of chemical and pain that creeps through the room. She knows his presence is enough to push away the badness, but he is not here now. Other days that may be different; on that most important day it will be different. He will be there then. She does not doubt that fact, and it makes the necessity bearable.
She looks at the room behind her own, peering at the way the struts merge and widen within the wall. Perhaps Captain Bad will make a door between the two. She is certain he will once he is shown the reason. He is most amenable to her suggestions when she shows him the logic. And this room will be perfect. Mary, Mary, quite contrary; this will be River's garden. She will tend it well, like the Camberson's berries. Wild at heart but guided by a loving hand. As she sows, so shall she reap.
River smiles. Her journey is done, her first steps complete. She can begin the second stage of her assault, undisturbed by terrible dreams. She slips through his door, makes her way into his bed. He wakes, of course, always attuned to her presence.
"River," he says, sleep still haunting his voice and eyes. "What's up, mei-mei?"
She climbs over him, burrows her way under the covers, between the wall and his warmth.
"I'm cold," she says, and waits for him to accept her presence.
"Mmm," he says as sleep settles back in. Then he yelps like a startled dog. "Your feet are like ice!"
River giggles, bubbles over the stone bed of the stream. She can see him smile before sleep claims him.
She is always ice, but he burns through her like a desert wind. River has a plan. A most clever plan, one that will ensure that someday, the black hole emptiness inside her will be replaced by his heat.
And then, on that someday, there will be ten little Indians. Just as soon as she can make her garden grow.
Title: Khamsin
Author: tigerlady
Fandom: Firefly
Pairing: not really but it's crazy space incest (that means River/Simon)
Summary: River's ice; Simon's not.
Notes: Written for a challenge on light_it. Khamsin: A generally southerly hot wind from the Sahara that blows across Egypt from late March to early May.
He burns hot, his presence like the summer wind, gusting across the desert bareness of the ship. River basks in his warmth. She is always ice, inside and out, the vacuum of space eating her insides like a black hole out of control-except when he melts it away with his presence. She can feel it even from her own room, waking her from deadly dreams and realities where she is not here. It draws her against all laws of thermodynamics; heat should flow to absence of heat, not the other way around.
She cannot sleep, not when plans race through her head, pushing to become actualities. So she stalks through the ship. The ship, the only one that matters. Serenity: ghost of a place that's better off not remembered, echo of a sensation no one seems to grasp. It is silent at night, her footsteps unheard by anyone but her own ears. If a girl screams in an empty forest, does she exist without anyone to slice her brain?
The galley is dark, hiding its treasures from little mice sneaking for a treat. River is not a mouse tonight. She steps up, walks along the hall of the crew quarters, neat little cages sealed up tight. Safe as houses, snug in their beds with sugar plums performing perfect pirouettes. River smiles. No Early wake-up call tonight.
She dances to the bridge. Serenity's brain; reflection of her own. Wires patched back and forth over scarred places that no longer work: it functions anyway. Wash makes Serenity fly like there was never any damage. Glancing at the flickering lights, she can see that Serenity does not need her. She flies just as Wash instructed, no other medicine needed.
River needs a pilot. But she has none, and so she spins back down the hall. One little, two little, three little Indians. She counts them all, nine little Indians if she counts herself. And she must, otherwise the numbers would lose their meaning. Numbers must have meaning, or she has none herself.
River dances, River stalks, River flows back down the back stairs, satisfied that this world is the right place for what she intends. She pauses at the infirmary, shudders at the stink of chemical and pain that creeps through the room. She knows his presence is enough to push away the badness, but he is not here now. Other days that may be different; on that most important day it will be different. He will be there then. She does not doubt that fact, and it makes the necessity bearable.
She looks at the room behind her own, peering at the way the struts merge and widen within the wall. Perhaps Captain Bad will make a door between the two. She is certain he will once he is shown the reason. He is most amenable to her suggestions when she shows him the logic. And this room will be perfect. Mary, Mary, quite contrary; this will be River's garden. She will tend it well, like the Camberson's berries. Wild at heart but guided by a loving hand. As she sows, so shall she reap.
River smiles. Her journey is done, her first steps complete. She can begin the second stage of her assault, undisturbed by terrible dreams. She slips through his door, makes her way into his bed. He wakes, of course, always attuned to her presence.
"River," he says, sleep still haunting his voice and eyes. "What's up, mei-mei?"
She climbs over him, burrows her way under the covers, between the wall and his warmth.
"I'm cold," she says, and waits for him to accept her presence.
"Mmm," he says as sleep settles back in. Then he yelps like a startled dog. "Your feet are like ice!"
River giggles, bubbles over the stone bed of the stream. She can see him smile before sleep claims him.
She is always ice, but he burns through her like a desert wind. River has a plan. A most clever plan, one that will ensure that someday, the black hole emptiness inside her will be replaced by his heat.
And then, on that someday, there will be ten little Indians. Just as soon as she can make her garden grow.