Fic: Turn of the 'Verse
Title: Turn of the 'Verse
Author: celebros
Written For: the_arc5
Fandom: Reboot x Firefly/Serenity, 2 years post-movies
Genre: Crossover, Comedy, Romance
Pairings: Kirk/Spock established relationship, Scotty/Kaylee (and hints of eventual giant space orgies with the whole lot)
Rating: R for multilingual strong language and some sexuality
Disclaimer: I don't own either of these crews, and no matter how much money I may have poured into the franchises, I'm not getting any back.
Word Count: 8720
Summary: The crew of Serenity spends a couple weeks aboard the Enterprise, and really, when you put that many sexy people together, hilarity and hookups are bound to ensue.
Notes: This is probably going to be part one of at least three, or maybe four. Or five. the_arc5 really knows how to craft a prompt to totally consume my life...
I.
The face isn't nearly as male, as Klingon, or as pissed off as Kirk had anticipated. In fact, he's pretty sure the visage of a cheerful nineteen-year-old girl was just about the last thing he expected to find on his viewscreen, especially since it's oh-five-hundred hours and he would still be sleeping if the on-duty comm officer hadn't insisted the situation required a Captain on the bridge. He's half-tempted to walk back to his quarters, throw Spock out of bed, and make him deal with whatever the hell this is.
Instead he says, “This is Captain James T. Kirk, Federation starship Enterprise.”
The girl tilts her head to the side. “Precisely,” she says.
He restrains the urge to spin in his chair and strangle the damn ensign twiddling his thumbs at the communications console. Instead, in his best tone of patient diplomacy, he says, “Might I have the pleasure of knowing to whom am I speaking?”
“I'm Captain River Tam of Serenity,” she responds, and damned if she didn't almost just reach out to shake hands. Kirk's pretty sure that if she had, he'd've reached out his own hand, and the fact that they're actually still several kilometers apart be damned. This bothers him almost as much as the fact that a teenage girl is captaining this utterly unfamiliar ship.
“Are you settlers, Captain?” Jim asks. “There aren't many Terran colonies in this sector - we weren't informed of any civilian cruisers in the region.”
“Explorers,” Tam responds promptly, and then shoots him such a winning smile that Jim is absolutely certain she's lying.
Then there's a voice in the background - deep, male, and almost whiny - and the girl turns from the screen to look behind her. The next look she shoots Kirk is downright sheepish, and she covers the viewscreen with one hand. Her calm voice rises indistinctly for a moment, and then the entire bridge hears, very distinctly, the man's voice rumble, “Little albatross, I thought I told you no more playin' Captain.”
“Practice makes perfect,” the girl's voice responds seriously.
“I ain't keelin' over anytime in the near future, 'less your brother makes some mistake that's of an unforgivable sort, and in any case, you know full well Zo's in line for the ship, and probably Kaylee too, 'fore you'd get your grubbly little fingers -” There's a pause. “Speakin' o' fingers,” the man's voice says, and another hand appears on the screen and peels River's away.
A distinctly sleep-touseled man appears on-screen. He blinks, several times, and then turns to the girl. Before he can say anything, she's wide-eyed and shaking her head.
“Not Alliance,” she says, and smiles at first at him and then at Kirk in what's meant to be a comforting way.
“Excuse me,” Kirk says, and now he's just pissed.
At the same time, the other man says tersely, “Could someone tell me what in the sphincter of hell it is that I've woken up to find on my screen?”
“I was just about to ask the same,” Kirk says, and then adds, “but probably a bit more pompously.”
“You were not invited,” the girl says, pointing at the screen.
“River, get the hell off the bridge,” the man says. She pouts but dances off the screen. The man sits in her chair, scrubs his hands across his face, and then says, “I don't suppose we could just pretend that never happened?”
“Um,” Kirk says. “No, not really.”
“She says you're not Alliance,” he says.
“Introductions again?” Kirk responds. “Captain James T. Kirk, Federation starship Enterprise, like it says on the front. And I believe we are to have it that your Serenity is not, in fact, captained by River Tam?”
“Sure feels like it now and then,” the man says. “I'm Captain. Malcolm Reynolds. I'm not at all familiar with the Federation, and actually, our sensor readings for the past couple days have indicated that wherever the hell we are doesn't actually exist.” He blinks again. “Albatross promised she'd find us help. Don't suppose that'd be you?”
“Not that I know,” Kirk admits. “What kind of help do you need, precisely?”
“Three days ago our sensor readings started going all manner of strange,” Reynolds says. “Eventually our maps and locational coordinates stop workin' altogether, and all of a sudden we're running across moons and planets we ain't never seen or heard of, places that didn't exist before, dong ma? Top of that, we were a few hours from Persephone, headed in for work and fuel and a half-dozen other necessaries, when things started goin'. Put it short, we're about four hours from dead in the water.”
His voice is brusque - it's clear he's not going to outright ask for assistance, but Kirk is pretty sure he's telling the truth and he's always been a little over-curious when it comes to folks from alternate universes, so what the hell.
“We'll arrange for docking in Shuttle Bay One,” he says, and closes the comm link as soon as he's gotten Reynolds' short nod. He sits in his chair for a moment, swiveling to one side and then the other in widening arcs, and then shoots Spock a decidedly unapologetic summons. It's clear that this is a job for his goddamn day crew.
II.
“Anamoly,” the girl announces. She's barefoot, strolling into the cargo bay at the rear of Serenity's small crew, and she's not meeting anyone's eyes, but Jim is certain that she's referring to the half-Vulcan two steps behind him. She makes a face, and then says, “Fascinating,” and he'd be equally certain she was mocking Spock if it weren't for the fact that she has certainly never heard him speak. His first officer takes a step forward; their fingers brush for a split second, and he knows that Spock can feel his unease and tense exhaustion. He inhales, matches Malcolm Reynolds' judicious gaze and extends a hand.
“Captain Reynolds,” he says, “this is Commander Spock, my first officer. My chief of engineering will be joining us shortly to see to your ship's needs.”
“'Preciate it,” Mal says, still a little short, but then River has come up beside him and her gaze passes across his back; he settles slightly, and turns to his crew. “This is Zoe, my second-in-command -” An attractive woman with skin a similar tone to Uhura's acknowledges them with a glare. “Jayne Cobb, public relations,” and Kirk's pretty sure the muscular man's language of relations consists primarily of exchanged phaser fire, or something more primitive. “Kaylee, our engineer,” who's staring solemnly around Enterprise, as if she's never been off Serenity in her life. “Ambassador Inara Serra,” and somehow, from the glare this elegant woman gives Reynolds, Jim's pretty sure that their relationship is probably not dissimilar to his and Uhura's. Although at least Reynolds does know her first name. Lastly, in the background, the solid presence of a dark-haired, well-dressed man. “And Doctor Tam. You've met his sister River.”
“Pilot,” the girl chirrups, slipping in between the shoulders of the command crew to shake Kirk's hand. Her fingers are slim, and her bare feet practically toe-to-toe with his regulation boots. “Gunslinger,” she adds, and anyone in their right mind would cower under the combined force of the looks that Mal and Zoe shoot her, but she just tilts her head to the side, her lips quirking at Kirk in a jaunty grin. Spock stiffens behind him, and he can feel a movement that isn't happening, Spock's wish to set a hand on his back or his shoulder. He almost laughs - is Spock actually afraid of this teenage girl? - but then he rethinks that question, sobered.
It is, he's pretty sure, not logical to be apprehensive over little River Tam, of all the people they've just met - so if his first officer is on the verge of displaying emotion over it, he must be getting some serious negative undertones. He squeezes her hand, his smile sure and confident. Her eyes are very solid on him, and when he breaks her gaze he realizes that as disapproving as Reynolds looks, the man's eyes are on River as if she holds the secrets to the universe.
Later, when the crew of the Serenity have been settled in guest quarters and familiarized with the synthesizers, and when Zoe and Kaylee and Scotty have gone off to find some sort of replacement buffer panel, Kirk tugs the PADD out of Spock's hands and nudges him over with his hip, making room for him to sit on the small sofa. For a moment they sit side by side, silent, Jim bent with his elbows on his knees, tapping his fingernails against his teeth and Spock's eyes sidelong at the discarded PADD.
“What the hell is going on with that girl?” he asks Spock.
“I am uncertain,” Spock says, and then, unhelpfully, “Something.”
“You think she's a threat?”
“At minimum, Jim, I do not believe her assertion that she is a gunslinger was entirely untrue,” Spock says quietly. “I recognize that her physical appearance and demeanor indicate otherwise -”
“All the crazy's a ruse, then?”
“I do not believe that is necessarily the case. Indeed, I believe her to be perfectly genuine with us. At the present all I can advise is that it would be imprudent to irritate her. Or her crew.”
“It's not her crew,” Jim says, half-amused. “Oh, and speaking of physical appearances - the, uh, relations officer.”
“Jayne,” Spock supplies, his face impassive.
“Did you see the looks he was giving you?”
“I was aware of his preoccupation with me, yes,” Spock says calmly. “From the subtle attentions paid to me by all members of the crew of Serenity, I propose that none of them have been in contact with cultures possessing qualities other than standard human appearances. Even Zoe -” and the name is damn awkward in his mouth, “who appeared distinctly unruffled in the face of the surprises encountered today,” namely, the knowledge that there was no past-tense associated with the planet Earth, “blatantly assessed my distinctly Vulcan anatomy repeatedly.”
Jim moves fast, straddling Spock's lap, one knee pressed awkwardly against the arm of the couch, against which Spock had shifted to make room for him. “Can I assess your anatomy?” he deadpans.
“Permission granted,” Spock answers with a quirked eyebrow.
III.
“There are apples aboard,” River tells Mal. “I heard them. Officers, in the middle of the gangplank, ready to jump off and all for the sake of a sparkling fruit.”
“Ain't we got more to eavesdrop about than gorram apples, River?”
“Mm,” River says, and shrugs. “They're boring. They mostly think like Simon, routines and gorram charts.” Then she grins. “Excepting Commander Spock, whose brain is made all of sand. Fine. Prickly, though.”
“Anything I should be knowin' about?”
“Not to frown over. But there's regiments and regulations all in his head,” River says. “Also sex.”
Mal's shoulders hunch slightly, as if in defeat. River chortles delightedly, and shakes her head. “Not like that,” she says.
“Thought I'd told you a few times too many to stop having conversations with my brain, albatross,” Mal says.
“Sometimes interesting,” she says lightly. “I would throw punches at the Kobayashi Maru. You would fail.” Her eyes light up again. “I'll wear the hats in this 'verse. The braids.” Her fingers stray to her wrists, worrying her sleeves.
“You'd not look half-bad in braids,” Mal says, weaving a few strands of her hair through his fingers. She leans her head into his hand, and he hesitates a moment with his fingers cupping her crown. “Kirk should be here by now,” he mutters, withdrawing back to his chair across the table. “Don't know why you think here's the place to be, girl.”
“Keep you safe,” River says. “But apples are necessary, first.” She clambers to her feet and dances to the door, which slides open expectantly. Kirk nearly runs into her, but she's ducking out of his way before he even realizes. His eyes widen slightly, and Mal can't help but smirk. River's got them baffled, all right.
“Captain Reynolds,” Kirk says smoothly, “I'm afraid we've run into some complications with your ship. It seems your timeline's space travel developed significantly differently from ours. From what Engineer Frye has told us about Serenity's fuel intake systems, it seems we won't be able to reach a station with the right resources for some time.”
“Define 'some time',” Mal insists, trying not to growl.
“Starfleet Command has us en route to a weeklong diplomatic seminar two days from here. Much of my crew will be taking shore leave in the system while a select team - including any maintenance personnel necessary to complete your repairs - continue business as usual. We've lodged a request to detour to an adequate station after that. Assuming it's granted, you'll be set in two weeks.” Kirk looks strained, as if this speech was a great effort.
“It's longer than we'd hoped,” Mal says, “and I hope you understand we've no way at present of paying for these repairs. It's an unlovely situation all around. But. We're better off this way than if you'd left us dangling in space, so I'm not one to complain about the delay.” And now he empathizes with Kirk's strained look, maybe - it's been a long time since he's had to carry on such polite conversation. He's never been one for formalities. (But that can't possibly be Kirk's problem, he rationalizes. Captain of a ship like this must take only the fanciest-talking mouths in the damn 'verse.)
River saunters back in with an armful of apples. She tosses one to Kirk, who catches it only instinctively, staring at her in astonishment; the second she presses into Mal's hand as if trying to communicate something in their moment of shared contact with the apple. The third she sets on the table in front of the chair on Captain Kirk's right, and the fourth she holds between both hands as she settles in the chair across from Mal. After a moment, she begins to twist at the stem.
Mal has already taken out his knife and is cutting slices from the apple. Kirk is looking at his as if afraid it's been poisoned, and sure enough, after a moment, River says sweetly, “If you need to ascertain the edibility of this apple, we won't be offended,” and Mal mutters, “Speak for yourself,” but really it's the truth. Kirk shrugs and takes an enormous bite, and Mal can't help but wince, thinking too many years back to pressure bombs and ribcages.
“Thanks,” Kirk says awkwardly to River, and she beams at his crooked hesitant smile.
“The grapevine informed me that on informal occasions, you relate stories about the misunderstandings that come from differing species' ideas of what constitutes a ceremony of holy matrimony,” she says earnestly. Kirk's eyes widen again, and he pauses, then chews his gigantic mouthful of apple more enthusiastically.
“River, this ain't exactly -” Mal says warningly, and then what the girl's saying hits him and his curiosity overcomes his common sense. “Huh. You mean to say you've been accidentally married, too?”
IV.
“Aye, but what does it do?”
Scotty's scratching his head, hands propped against Serenity's still engine, leaning against it and not-quite-scowling at what Kaylee's called a 'port compression coil', a piece that she claims is fully operational even though it doesn't seem to have any purpose at all.
“Well, just about nothin',” she says, unperturbed, although her voice is muffled because she's lying beneath the engine. “Sort of serves as a buffer from everything to everything else, maybe. 'Sides, it don't matter particular what it does long as I know Serenity don't run a thing without it.”
She slides out from under the engine and dabs at the large brown drops of engine fluid on her cheek, although all she succeeds in doing is blotting them from small liquid flecks to coin-sized patches of grime. She stands, but her smile fades slightly and she takes on a bit of confusion when she sees Scotty's consternation.
“It's different from what you're used to, I guess,” she says, looking down.
“Aye, lass, I'd say that again,” he says. “My engine room is likely larger than your wee ship! And I've got a crew of incompetent ensigns at my bidding, too.” Her lips twitch slightly, a glib smile of acknowledgement, and Scotty can feel her ego shrinking into itself. “It's incredible that you and this bitty thing can fly a ship as sure as the bloody Federation flagship.” She looks up again, and this time her smile is genuine, and the question comes from his mouth like it was greased and sent down a vertical chute. “D'ye love her?”
She looks at him in almost-indignation, and he softens and answers for her. “O' course ye do. Cannae imagine there's a soul steps on her decks with a beatin' heart that don't.”
She looks down, flushing now - he's said the right thing. “And you?” she asks hesitantly. “And - and Enterprise? Or is it different -” and she starts to speak faster, as if trying to take back the question, “being an assignment, you know, and - and being military, and -”
“She talks to me at night,” Scotty cuts her off, his voice soft and low. “Hums mostly, but sometimes wakes me if she's upset. There's nowhere I can go she's nae tagging along. Corridors and turbolifts and Jeffries tubes and quarters and mess hall she's under my feet and under my fingers, giving me food and breath and bein' all that's twixt me and the black of space. When she hurts, I fix her. I know every bit of her, and I reckon she of me, and I can't imagine either there's a person gets to know a lady like we know ours that don't fall more than a bit in love.” He thinks he's staring off wistfully into empty air, but when he pulls himself back in he realizes it's her he's staring at - Kaylee - and she's looking back. He clears his throat, and then wishes he hadn't because she starts and looks back at the base of the engine.
“Xie-xie,” she says, not looking at him. “I know. She is awful beautiful, your ship.”
He chuckles. “Not sure Cap'n Kirk'd like to hear you call 'er mine,” he says. “Enterprise isn't monogamous, strictly speakin' - and he's just as smitten and possessive as I am.”
“Cap'n too,” she says, and then, embarrassed, “Mine, I mean. That is, Cap'n Reynolds.”
“Aye, lass, I knew what ye meant,” he says, and now she's even more embarrassed. He decides to take a stab, because unlike all the other women he seems to have met, Ms. Frye is cheery as well as bright, and more importantly, understands that the Enterprise will always be his first woman. “Ye know, we've been at work here a few hours now - say we liberate some food and look over these ship's schematics I hear ye mention.”
Her face falls, ruddier than ever, and his heart sinks with it. “Thing is, we're pretty scant for food,” she says, turning away to hide her expression and digging in a little metal cabinet. “We've just got protein compounds - nothin' fit for feedin' guests, Chief Scott -”
“Scotty, please, Miss Kaylee,” he says, understanding, “Your hospitality has been lovely, but I believe if we look much further we'll find ye are in fact a guest aboard the Enterprise. Captain Kirk made a point of insisting you help yourself to our synthesizers. And from the sound of things, ye've been far too long without a sandwich. And I can show ye our engine room, if -”
“What's a sandwich?” she asks, brightening as she pulls the schematics from the drawer.
“Oh, poor lass,” he whimpers, and then takes her arm gently. “Come wi' me. Ye've a world of excitement before ye.”
V.
Sulu brings his latest bruises and medicinal herbs to Sickbay once every two weeks, like clockwork. He hadn't anticipated to be giving combat lessons today, not with all the command staff so busy with their strange visitors, but Kirk had looked like he could use a break from running circles around the little pilot, and one of Serenity's women had shown up and pronounced the fight much more stimulating than the hubbub she usually witnessed.
He's carrying the aloe-hybrid awkwardly against his belly, since the insides of his arms are too sore for it to be comfortable to rest the pot on them, and as he approaches Sickbay, a man in a crisp vest and a peculiarly ill-matching and informal neckerchief takes a few hurried steps forwards and reaches out his arm. It takes Sulu a moment to realize that the man is planning to hold the door for him, and it isn't until he reaches the entryway and the automatic doors slide smoothly open that the poor fellow's face flushes. He grins sheepishly.
“Still not used to this technology, I guess,” he says, standing there at the doorway as Sulu takes the last few steps. It's clear he's truly embarrassed.
“Thought that counts,” Sulu says, inclining his head as if to say it happens to all of us now and then, even when it really doesn't. The man sweeps in behind him, and McCoy gives a grunt of recognition to each of them, liberating the plant and hurrying it into his office.
“Uh,” the stranger says, turning to him, “I'm Simon. Tam. Serenity's doctor.”
“Hikaru Sulu,” he responds, proffering a hand, and they shake neatly. “I'm the ranking pilot. Good to meet you.” Simon's grip is light but not weak, and he adjusts his neckerchief nervously, glancing towards McCoy's office. Sulu sits on one of the beds and decides not to take his shirt off just yet.
“Here to review the technology?” he suggests conversationally.
“Seems like the thing to do,” Simon says with a shrug. “Everyone having a confab with their counterparts. Uh... River hasn't been bothering you, has she?”
“Hmm?”
“My sister's our pilot, I thought she might have been... but I guess she's been keeping Mal company.” Startlement dashes across his figures, and he corrects hastily, “Captain Reynolds,” looking so abashed it's nearly comical. “Are you...” He looks towards the office. “Doctor McCoy doesn't seem to be in much of a hurry coming back out here. Are you here for medical attention, or just...?”
“Routine stuff,” Sulu says with what he hopes is a rueful grin. “I do hand-to-hand lessons, various combat practices with the crew. I enjoy it, but once I cracked a couple ribs and it took me a bit too long to figure it out. Ever since then McCoy has me come in every other week to make sure I'm all in one piece.” He rolls his eyes, but Simon is nodding.
“If only my crew was as thoughtful with their recreational incidents of bodily harm,” Simon answers with sardonic wistfulness, and Sulu laughs.
“It's mostly just me who listens, actually,” he admits, now a little sheepish himself, as if he shouldn't be quite so obedient. Truth is, he doesn't mind Sickbay the way the rest of the bridge crew seem to - maybe because he's very rarely hurt badly enough to have to stay more than an hour or two. He visits sometimes unscheduled - at first always under the guise of making sure McCoy is making good use of his plants, and later for tea (or whiskey) and light conversation. Every time he's seen Kirk enter the Sickbay of his own free will, it's either been with a jovial intent to irritate his CMO, or shrouded in a sort of funereal gloom, his inexplicably boundless energy muted.
Simon grins anyway, and then after a lingering moment eye contact, looks back towards McCoy's office again. “So I was wondering,” he says, and then his voice lowers to a hush, “is he always... quite so...?”
“He's an old grump, if that's what you mean,” Sulu says, not bothering to modulate his volume, and it's quite funny to see the young doctor's wince, particularly in harmony with the scowl on McCoy's face as he emerges from his office. He meets McCoy's eyes over Simon's shoulder and announces cheerfully, “His bedside manner's crap.”
“Only for idiots who waste my time by intentionally getting beaten up on a regular basis,” McCoy growls, and Simon almost jumps back, poor boy.
“To be fair, I'm doing most of the beating-up,” Sulu corrects. “And when I'm not, it's really not intentional. The Captain just gets in a lucky blow now and then. As captains are wont to do.” And this time Simon practically chokes on a snort of laughter, trying to disguise it by looking away at the machinery, far too close to be actually examining it.
“So, Doctor Tam,” McCoy says, whapping Sulu's arm rather harder than necessary to get his attention, tugging at his sleeve with a raised eyebrow, “would you care to brag up your ship's medical superiority?”
“Not particularly,” Simon says. “I'd be more keen on finding out what I can do to get access to medical research on brain damage. More specifically, ameliorations of the amygdala.” He turns away from the blinking console, his expression twitching a little as Sulu strips off his black undertunic and grimaces at the dark blossoms of bruises on his upper arms and a particularly large blotch across the right side of his abdomen.
“From what I hear, I should be assuming you're talking about the human amygdala?” McCoy says, still grumbling but with a new hint of professionalism. Simon's eyes widen slightly. “Can't imagine why, it's not nearly as interesting as... not that there's an awful lot of research on Vulcans in any case, especially not anymore, but their overdeveloped emotional control centers certainly make for an interesting -”
“I'm not sure he even knows what a Vulcan is, Doc,” Sulu says, amused, poking at the bruise on his side. McCoy slaps his hand away.
Simon is trying so, so hard not to gape. “My crewmates - well, you're right, we'd never encountered - but my sister used the term to refer to Commander Spock...?”
“Spock's only half-Vulcan,” Sulu says helpfully.
“I was thinking human research, but I'd certainly be open to -”
“My God, man, did you let Jim crush every minor blood vessel in your oblique region?” McCoy interrupts with a growl, slapping Sulu's hands away from his side again and running his fingers experimentally over the bruise, which is roughly the size and color of an overripe eggplant. “Were you using foils or baseball bats?”
“He did seem a little stressed,” Sulu admits, and then looks at Simon apologetically. “Sorry, you were saying?”
“What is that?” Simon asks, taking a hesitantly awed step forwards as he watches the large bruise fade as the faint light sweeps back and forth across it.
“Vascular regenerator,” McCoy says. “Don't tell me you don't have one?”
Simon gapes openly for a second, and then stutters a little before shaking his head. “There were experimental designs, when I worked on Osiris, but even when we dealt with Alliance healers after Miranda, their best technologies still took at least...at least half a day to do the sort of deep tissue repair...” He blinks. “Is that portable?”
“The kind of portable that's worth ten cases of Kentucky's best bourbon,” McCoy says, his eyebrows quirked.
“Pretty much no,” Sulu interprets, unable to quite maintain his grin through the tingling discomfort of regeneration pressing against his ribs.
“I'd ask for schematics, but from the updates I've gotten, it sounds like your technology is pretty incompatible with ours,” Simon says, leaning back against the extra bed.
“Scarring I saw on your Captain says you still use Goddamn twentieth-century medicine. Stitches,” McCoy practically spits.
“But we've got digital imaging technology you'd never believe,” Simon says. “I got a high-tech neural imager about six months back...”
Sulu phases out, amusing himself by looking back and forth between the matching intense expressions of the dark-haired doctors. When McCoy has finished patching him up, the man shifts to Sulu's other side so that he's standing across from Simon, next to Sulu leaning up against the exam table, Sulu's undertunic beneath McCoy's palm, resting heavily back against the bed.
(Doesn't matter anyway, since Sulu's not entirely opposed to taking advantage of the excuse to hang around these particular men in his shirtless-and-muscular state.)
VI.
The girl had greeted him as if he was an old friend, except with a cheery, “Cupcake!” and he'd stalked off without even thinking about it. It wasn't the first time a complete stranger had called him by the five-years-past mock-name, but this time he couldn't even curse at her in Chinese. (When he'd decided to drop his Vulcan elective two weeks after the bar incident, Uhura had taken pity on him - agreed to talk to him again and advised him that Mandarin had the best profanity.)
Gerry's not sure he likes where this has led him: Serenity's an unattractive piece of shit, and even more so with the trouble her crew's caused him already. He doesn't appreciate his long-awaited shore leave being chopped unceremoniously in half, or that his Chief Engineer has been spending all his time pointlessly feeding his life-force into the shallow tray of luh-suh calling itself an extinct insect, instead of the ship he claims to love like a wife.
Hails to Scotty have yielded zilch, and he knows the man in technically off-duty, but the lord of the distillery has long since evolved the ability to sleep whilst bartending and listening to disgruntled crew bitch, so dammit, he's gonna find Scott even if it means misusing his security clearance to board the damned bane of his existence.
He tries not to make noise, but the floors are this metal mesh shit, and he's wearing heavy regulation boots. Everything echoes until he gets abovedecks, at which point he follows a chain of tiny decorative lights, the sound of low voices, and the clanking of tools into the oddly homey engine room.
The young female engineer sees him and starts, nearly choking on her drink. “Scotty,” she says when she's swallowed. There's a prodigious thunk from the back, and an, “Och,” at which Gerry and the engineer roll their eyes in unison.
“Wha's up, Kaylee?” Scotty's disembodied voice asks.
“Lieutenant Martin from Security for you, sir,” he responds.
“Ah, Gerry lad,” Scotty says, emerging from behind the engine. “What's news?”
“I'm in need of some supplies, Chief,” Gerry says stoically.
“Of the brewish sort?” he asks, and Gerry can't help but wince. “No worries, mate - Kaylee here's got an engine distillery of her verrah own.”
“Oh,” he says, and spends a moment deciding not to throw a temper tantrum. Kaylee raises a shoddy metal cup sloshing with amber liquid and it's then that he realizes they're both a little cross-eyed. Kaylee takes a half-step back, drops into her buggering rainbow hammock, and fishes out another shrapnel-scrap mug that looks as if it'd as soon cut his lips to ribbons as hold drinkable liquid. Scotty grabs the cup and disappears again, reemerging with two newly filled and handing one to Gerry.
“Have a sit,” Scotty says, throwing himself down next to Kaylee in the hammock and jostling her so that her liquor splashes onto her face. She snorts and swats him. Gerry settles gingerly onto a wooden crate, which appears to have been lifted straight from a twentieth-century barn.
“We was just sayin' how funny Vulcans are,” Kaylee announces. “My verse the closest we get to aliens is Reavers, and they were th' 'lliance's fault for being a go tsao de hwun dan.” She wrinkles her nose. “I really can't help none I swear in Chinese, you know,” she informs Scotty, who waves a floppily dismissive hand as Gerry finds himself nodding sagely. Their eyes go to him, and he shifts, self-conscious.
“It's a yu bun duh hwun chiou that can't swear in Chinese,” he says gruffly, taking a large swig of swill, which burns in a way he might've labelled unpleasant if he weren't trying to get drunk. Kaylee laughs delightedly and claps a couple times.
“See, even Lieutenant Martin does,” she says. “You're just bung ignorant, Mister Scott, that's all. Chinese's got the colorfullest cusses...”
“Call me Gerry,” he says, still gruff because he doesn't want to like her.
“Gerry, help me teach Scotty how 's done,” she says. “Give us one o' yer cussin's, we'll fix it up.”
“Ah,” Scotty says, leaning way back and nearly flipping the hammock. Then he springs to his feet, fiercely proffering his cup in one hand, the other a wagging finger in an invisible ensign's face. “Lipkin! The fuck ye do to th' converters, lad? We've leaks in three of the Jeffries 'n yer reclinin' on yer barmy arse f'r the last time! If ye were a lad o' mine I'd have yer hide nine ways from ever-livin' Sunday an' make ye mewl like a kitten new-slid from its bitchy ma'am!” He pauses a moment, still contorted in energetic rage.
There's a silence, and then Kaylee begins to giggle. Gerry isn't drunk yet but particularly knowing Ensign Lipkin, it's impossible to stifle his laughter - and, if he's honest with himself, downright illogical too.
“That's a piece of art,” Gerry says to Kaylee, who is still snorting with laughter, sighing and wiping her eyes. “I'm not sure we can cut that apart.”
“He'll pick up on it,” Kaylee agrees, patting Scotty's knee affectionately. He looks inordinately proud.
“So far all's I've got is gorramit and go-se,” he admits, abashed.
“Gorramit's not Chinese,” Gerry says.
“Just slang,” Kaylee confirms.
“I should make Nyota teach me more languages,” Scotty says ruefully. “Once I started goin' on away missions she taught me the necessaries - lower yer weapons an' release the cap'n an' 'scuse me in abou' fifteen alien languages, but other'n that an' the Irish I learnt a' th' cradle I'm hardly...” He trails off and frowns into his cup. “You empty, Gerry?”
He is.
“Cap'll be pissy, we drink it all,” Kaylee calls as Scotty disappears for refills. “'n River too, though nobody knows that but me... but I promise, a pissy River is a thing no-one's keen t'see.”
“River, she's the pilot?” Gerry asks, grabbing his cup from Scotty and gulping half of it.
“Yep, past two years,” Kaylee says.
“She's a little 'un,” Scotty says, missing the hammock and sitting hard at Kaylee's feet. “Can' see 'er drinkin'...”
“Nineteen,” Kaylee says.
“Och, Chekov's age, then. I s'pose,” Scotty concedes.
“She's a little strange,” Gerry says, which is as close to tactful as he can get; it's an accomplishment not to use Chinese to express just what he thinks of the girl.
“River? Crazy as anythin' in the verse,” Kaylee says cheerfully. “But jen duh sh tyen tsai - smarter'n anyone you ever met. An' she might look like a little thing, but she'll knock anyone flat on 'is back he look at Cap or Simon funny.”
“Och, Mr. Spock'd give 'er a run for 'er money,” Scotty says, leaning his head against Kaylee's leg. “Chekov too maybe, for the genius-ness. Smarts're one thing, but in th' realm of theoretical physics...”
“She'd destroy any man walkin',” Kaylee says stoutly.
“Tha's yer leg,” Scotty observes suddenly of the solid thing against which he's resting his head. He leans away, grinning but embarrassed. “Sorry, lass.”
“Nonsense,” Kaylee says briskly, warpping an arm around his neck and tugging him back to lean on her. Gerry grins; Scotty winks and closes his eyes. For a long while they just sit and drink together; Gerry's the one to get refills next, although it takes him a while to find the still in the back of the engine.
“'s it Delta yet?” Scotty asks into the companionable silence.
“'s 2100 hours,” Gerry says. “You on shift?”
“Cap'n Kirk told me write my own hours 'til S'renity's patched,” Scotty mumbles.
“He's a nice man, your Cap,” Kaylee says blurrily.
“Kaylee!” a voice barks from the hallway; Scotty starts awake and sits upright.
“Jayne,” Kaylee calls back, bored, “I thought Cap told you'n'Zo -”
“Mal and River're back from their daily dose of fun,” Jayne says, stomping into the doorway. “You know their fancy synthers won't gimme a drink?” He looks around, his lip curling. “You havin' a gorram tea party or getting' us fixed and off this piece of unnatural fei-oo?”
“Think you're lucky Scotty doesn't speak Chinese,” Gerry mutters, although Scotty's already letting Kaylee coax him back to rest against her thigh, supremely unconcerned.
“Don' remember askin' you,” Jayne says.
“Want a cup?” Kaylee asks, unperturbed. She tosses Jayne the last metal mug, which he catches easily.
“'s what I came for,” Jayne grumbles, shouldering in towards the still. “you gonna make me sit on my pee-gu or find me a gorram chair?”
“I brought the drinks,” Kaylee says. “Someone else's in charge o' chairs.”
“Fine,” Jayne says, setting his cup by the engine with a suspicious glare at Gerry. He stomps back out.
“Grab one for Gerry!” Kaylee shouts.
“He can grab one for hisself!” Jayne shouts back. Gerry lumbers to his feet, setting the again-empty shrapnel-cup on the crate and following Jayne's hulking shape down the hall.
“You one of the fancy engineerers?” Jayne asks, not looking at him.
“Security,” Gerry answers. Jayne laughs.
When they've grabbed a pair of scrubbed wooden chairs (this ship is just too cozy), they trudge back silently towards the engine room. Gerry's rolling his eyes by the time he realizes what he's hearing; Jayne grabs his arm and anchors him back as if there's imminent danger. He is extremely strong.
“They're snogging,” Gerry says quietly, patiently.
“Kaylee ain't snogged no one since she stopped ruttin' with the doc,” Jayne whispers back roughly, defensively. He sets his chair down and sits in it firmly, not letting go of Gerry's arm. He reluctantly follows suit, right next to the man.
“My drink's in there,” he says after a moment.
“Mine too,” Jayne says.
VII.
He's not entirely sure if he's just pretending to be sleepy for the sake of pressing his cheek against her leg, or if he's actually had enough to drink that he's dozy. At least, not 'til Kaylee shakes his shoulder and she's talking to him in a gentle whisper, the words thinning like fog and wrapping around him. She's articulate but he doesn't know what she's saying; her fingers work at his shoulders and he's not sure if the moan he hears in his head actually came from his mouth or not.
“Scotty, come on,” she whispers, and he finally understands the words, except he doesn't know what she's asking him to do.
“Sorry, lass,” he answers just as quietly, wondering why are they whispering, is someone sleeping?
She laughs and cups a hand underneath his elbow, lifting, and oh, she's asking him to sit in the hammock with her again. He can do that. He lets her take his hands and lift him, although it's a strange angle, and the lights are dim and everything is a little blurry but she's smiling at him, that much is clear.
“Och, sorry,” he mumbles again, and he's pressing the crown of his head into the curve of her neck before he remembers he hasn't asked any permissions. But her hand comes up and around his shoulders, her fingers loosely stroking the other side of his neck and cheek, and he could close his eyes but then he'd be asleep again and that is certainly not what he wants. She laughs again, softly, and he wonders if he said something out loud.
“You're so sleepy,” she says, the laughter still dancing in her voice, and he lifts his head to meet her eyes and see if they're dancing too. They're serious and affectionate and his lips are smiling without him having to tell them to, which is probably good. “Come here,” she says, pulling her legs up and twisting so that now she's stretched out in the hammock, up on her elbows, and he's still sitting there dumb with his feet dangling over the edge but leaning into her. She's pulling gently, and finally he realizes that he's to mirror her movement; he wonders if he should take off his shoes but doesn't. He lifts himself fully into the hammock, which is really too small for two people, and the fabric is taut, pushing their bodies together. He's twisted, half on his side and half on his back, her knees nestled behind his but his torso twisting so he can see her above him.
Sometime in the last couple of hours she's wiped her face; there are still dark spots of grease near her hairline and at the back of her jaw near her ears, but there's no sign of the spilled drink; she's shining faintly in the twinkling Christmas lights. Her hair is waving loose, curving at her chin, and he shifts to free his hand from the hammock pinning it, brushing some of the hair back from her eyes.
“It's a squeeze,” he says quietly. “Ye don' mind?” Her eyes crinkle and she lowers herself to nestle beside him. They fit together like parts in her ship's beautiful old engine, intimate pieces of metal that have worn away to fit one another - as if this niche they've settled into in the last two days was carved out for them long before they met. He tilts his head, twists so that they're facing, brings his hand to her hip and pulls her up the last couple of inches so that they're even. He wants to do this right, because usually when he gets an opportunity to ruin something it's Enterprise and he knows he can fix anything, but this is something he'd have no idea how to fix, so it's a lot harder to jump.
“Scotty,” Kaylee says softly, and meets his eyes from two inches away, “you don't kiss me pretty soon, we -”
He lifts his other hand to cup the back of her head, but he doesn't have to pull her forwards, she's already there, and he tucks his head to press his lips against hers. There's not a trace of sleep left in his body, but he feels slow, langurous, as if he has all the time in the world and will never need to breathe again. Kaylee's fingers dig through his hair and into his scalp, and she makes a sound against his mouth. It's a sound he's thinking too, and it's strange, because as he's kissing her it's occuring to him that they might be the same person, just different permutations in different universes, and she doesn't have sandwiches and he doesn't know Chinese, but as he's skating his fingers across her hip, thumb pressing against the bone through layers of clothing, and she's rubbing her thumbs across his cheekbones as if shining an apple, none of that seems to matter so much.
He shifts, and her lips part wider. She shivers and curls even closer to him, which he would've said was impossible. She kisses unsubtly - which he appreciates, and does his best to reciprocate - and right now there's something playful about the way her tongue is slipping into his mouth. She's definitely smiling. He plays along for a while, and then she lets him move. He drags a kiss across the line of her jaw, brushes his fingers lightly up her hairline where the smudges of oil darken her flushed skin, and sucks gently at her earlobe before giving it a nip, which is usually a pretty safe bet.
Sure enough, her fingers tighten in his hair, and she gasps a little; he exhales sharply against her neck and kisses his way down to her throat. She shucks her jacket quickly, and their fingers fumble together with the first two buttons of her blouse. Scotty presses his lips reverently against the notch between her collarbones. He lifts his hands to cup under her arms, and then runs them down her sides back to her hips so that the pads of his thumbs just barely pass over her breasts.
And it's suddenly not playful anymore; she shifts them so that she's halfway on top of him, and there's a distinct aggression in the way she lowers her mouth to his, raking her fingers across his chest and pressing her hips down against him possessively. She's breathing harder now, and Scotty lifts his head from the hammock to meet her, and then suddenly she breaks away from him starts up, her eyes wide, and claps a hand to her mouth.
“Tyen shiao duh, jen dao mei,” she curses, and then starts to giggle, of all things, “Where did Jayne and Gerry -?”
“I thought they left!” Scotty exclaims, trying to sit up, but the hammock is rocking as they both fumble to move. She shakes her head, pointing at the abandoned cups by the engine and the crate, Jayne's still full to the brim. She grabs his arm to steady them, her eyes still large in horrified realization, and no, there's no point in being embarrassed, especially not when she's in the same state - he laughs too. They stumble from the hammock together and Kaylee's clasping his hand tight; they creep to the door and look out.
The hall is pretty dark, but not fifteen feet from the door are a pair of chairs practically hugging each other, they're so close together. Jayne is sitting in one, his arms crossed, and although they can't see his expression it's clear he's looking straight at them. Gerry's head is resting heavily on his shoulder, the lieutenant's mouth wide-open in sleep.
“Better've been worth it,” Jayne grumbles, lurching to his feet and moving towards them; Gerry falls against the vacated chair and smacks his head thoroughly before he's awake enough to stop himself. Jayne shoulders past, grabs his cup from its resting place beside the engine, and looks Kaylee and Scotty thoroughly up and down with a smirk before trudging back out.
“You be in your bunk?” Kaylee calls after him teasingly, but he just grunts as he brushes past Gerry, who's clutching his head and still blinking off sleep. She looks at Scotty appraisingly, wraps an arm around his waist, and gives him a look that says, very clearly, that they have unfinished business.
Translations:
(taken from the Firefly published scripts and cobbled together as best I can; feel free to correct if I've messed any up)
dong ma? - Understand?
Xie-xie - thank you
luh-suh - garbage
go tsao de hwun dan - dog-humping bastard
yu bun duh hwun chiou - stupid fink
jen duh sh tyen tsai - an absolute genius
pee-gu - ass
Tyen shiao duh jen dao mei - In the name of all that's sacred, just our luck
Notes:
I'm usually a Mal/River shipper, but it's difficult to resist the tug of having put two nineteen-year-old supergeniuses together on a ship. IDK, maybe River and Chekov will just dance some Russian ballet together and then gossip and share relationship advice... And I can't WAIT to write some mad telepathic play between Spock and River.
Further hijinx shall, in fact, ensue.
Author: celebros
Written For: the_arc5
Fandom: Reboot x Firefly/Serenity, 2 years post-movies
Genre: Crossover, Comedy, Romance
Pairings: Kirk/Spock established relationship, Scotty/Kaylee (and hints of eventual giant space orgies with the whole lot)
Rating: R for multilingual strong language and some sexuality
Disclaimer: I don't own either of these crews, and no matter how much money I may have poured into the franchises, I'm not getting any back.
Word Count: 8720
Summary: The crew of Serenity spends a couple weeks aboard the Enterprise, and really, when you put that many sexy people together, hilarity and hookups are bound to ensue.
Notes: This is probably going to be part one of at least three, or maybe four. Or five. the_arc5 really knows how to craft a prompt to totally consume my life...
I.
The face isn't nearly as male, as Klingon, or as pissed off as Kirk had anticipated. In fact, he's pretty sure the visage of a cheerful nineteen-year-old girl was just about the last thing he expected to find on his viewscreen, especially since it's oh-five-hundred hours and he would still be sleeping if the on-duty comm officer hadn't insisted the situation required a Captain on the bridge. He's half-tempted to walk back to his quarters, throw Spock out of bed, and make him deal with whatever the hell this is.
Instead he says, “This is Captain James T. Kirk, Federation starship Enterprise.”
The girl tilts her head to the side. “Precisely,” she says.
He restrains the urge to spin in his chair and strangle the damn ensign twiddling his thumbs at the communications console. Instead, in his best tone of patient diplomacy, he says, “Might I have the pleasure of knowing to whom am I speaking?”
“I'm Captain River Tam of Serenity,” she responds, and damned if she didn't almost just reach out to shake hands. Kirk's pretty sure that if she had, he'd've reached out his own hand, and the fact that they're actually still several kilometers apart be damned. This bothers him almost as much as the fact that a teenage girl is captaining this utterly unfamiliar ship.
“Are you settlers, Captain?” Jim asks. “There aren't many Terran colonies in this sector - we weren't informed of any civilian cruisers in the region.”
“Explorers,” Tam responds promptly, and then shoots him such a winning smile that Jim is absolutely certain she's lying.
Then there's a voice in the background - deep, male, and almost whiny - and the girl turns from the screen to look behind her. The next look she shoots Kirk is downright sheepish, and she covers the viewscreen with one hand. Her calm voice rises indistinctly for a moment, and then the entire bridge hears, very distinctly, the man's voice rumble, “Little albatross, I thought I told you no more playin' Captain.”
“Practice makes perfect,” the girl's voice responds seriously.
“I ain't keelin' over anytime in the near future, 'less your brother makes some mistake that's of an unforgivable sort, and in any case, you know full well Zo's in line for the ship, and probably Kaylee too, 'fore you'd get your grubbly little fingers -” There's a pause. “Speakin' o' fingers,” the man's voice says, and another hand appears on the screen and peels River's away.
A distinctly sleep-touseled man appears on-screen. He blinks, several times, and then turns to the girl. Before he can say anything, she's wide-eyed and shaking her head.
“Not Alliance,” she says, and smiles at first at him and then at Kirk in what's meant to be a comforting way.
“Excuse me,” Kirk says, and now he's just pissed.
At the same time, the other man says tersely, “Could someone tell me what in the sphincter of hell it is that I've woken up to find on my screen?”
“I was just about to ask the same,” Kirk says, and then adds, “but probably a bit more pompously.”
“You were not invited,” the girl says, pointing at the screen.
“River, get the hell off the bridge,” the man says. She pouts but dances off the screen. The man sits in her chair, scrubs his hands across his face, and then says, “I don't suppose we could just pretend that never happened?”
“Um,” Kirk says. “No, not really.”
“She says you're not Alliance,” he says.
“Introductions again?” Kirk responds. “Captain James T. Kirk, Federation starship Enterprise, like it says on the front. And I believe we are to have it that your Serenity is not, in fact, captained by River Tam?”
“Sure feels like it now and then,” the man says. “I'm Captain. Malcolm Reynolds. I'm not at all familiar with the Federation, and actually, our sensor readings for the past couple days have indicated that wherever the hell we are doesn't actually exist.” He blinks again. “Albatross promised she'd find us help. Don't suppose that'd be you?”
“Not that I know,” Kirk admits. “What kind of help do you need, precisely?”
“Three days ago our sensor readings started going all manner of strange,” Reynolds says. “Eventually our maps and locational coordinates stop workin' altogether, and all of a sudden we're running across moons and planets we ain't never seen or heard of, places that didn't exist before, dong ma? Top of that, we were a few hours from Persephone, headed in for work and fuel and a half-dozen other necessaries, when things started goin'. Put it short, we're about four hours from dead in the water.”
His voice is brusque - it's clear he's not going to outright ask for assistance, but Kirk is pretty sure he's telling the truth and he's always been a little over-curious when it comes to folks from alternate universes, so what the hell.
“We'll arrange for docking in Shuttle Bay One,” he says, and closes the comm link as soon as he's gotten Reynolds' short nod. He sits in his chair for a moment, swiveling to one side and then the other in widening arcs, and then shoots Spock a decidedly unapologetic summons. It's clear that this is a job for his goddamn day crew.
II.
“Anamoly,” the girl announces. She's barefoot, strolling into the cargo bay at the rear of Serenity's small crew, and she's not meeting anyone's eyes, but Jim is certain that she's referring to the half-Vulcan two steps behind him. She makes a face, and then says, “Fascinating,” and he'd be equally certain she was mocking Spock if it weren't for the fact that she has certainly never heard him speak. His first officer takes a step forward; their fingers brush for a split second, and he knows that Spock can feel his unease and tense exhaustion. He inhales, matches Malcolm Reynolds' judicious gaze and extends a hand.
“Captain Reynolds,” he says, “this is Commander Spock, my first officer. My chief of engineering will be joining us shortly to see to your ship's needs.”
“'Preciate it,” Mal says, still a little short, but then River has come up beside him and her gaze passes across his back; he settles slightly, and turns to his crew. “This is Zoe, my second-in-command -” An attractive woman with skin a similar tone to Uhura's acknowledges them with a glare. “Jayne Cobb, public relations,” and Kirk's pretty sure the muscular man's language of relations consists primarily of exchanged phaser fire, or something more primitive. “Kaylee, our engineer,” who's staring solemnly around Enterprise, as if she's never been off Serenity in her life. “Ambassador Inara Serra,” and somehow, from the glare this elegant woman gives Reynolds, Jim's pretty sure that their relationship is probably not dissimilar to his and Uhura's. Although at least Reynolds does know her first name. Lastly, in the background, the solid presence of a dark-haired, well-dressed man. “And Doctor Tam. You've met his sister River.”
“Pilot,” the girl chirrups, slipping in between the shoulders of the command crew to shake Kirk's hand. Her fingers are slim, and her bare feet practically toe-to-toe with his regulation boots. “Gunslinger,” she adds, and anyone in their right mind would cower under the combined force of the looks that Mal and Zoe shoot her, but she just tilts her head to the side, her lips quirking at Kirk in a jaunty grin. Spock stiffens behind him, and he can feel a movement that isn't happening, Spock's wish to set a hand on his back or his shoulder. He almost laughs - is Spock actually afraid of this teenage girl? - but then he rethinks that question, sobered.
It is, he's pretty sure, not logical to be apprehensive over little River Tam, of all the people they've just met - so if his first officer is on the verge of displaying emotion over it, he must be getting some serious negative undertones. He squeezes her hand, his smile sure and confident. Her eyes are very solid on him, and when he breaks her gaze he realizes that as disapproving as Reynolds looks, the man's eyes are on River as if she holds the secrets to the universe.
Later, when the crew of the Serenity have been settled in guest quarters and familiarized with the synthesizers, and when Zoe and Kaylee and Scotty have gone off to find some sort of replacement buffer panel, Kirk tugs the PADD out of Spock's hands and nudges him over with his hip, making room for him to sit on the small sofa. For a moment they sit side by side, silent, Jim bent with his elbows on his knees, tapping his fingernails against his teeth and Spock's eyes sidelong at the discarded PADD.
“What the hell is going on with that girl?” he asks Spock.
“I am uncertain,” Spock says, and then, unhelpfully, “Something.”
“You think she's a threat?”
“At minimum, Jim, I do not believe her assertion that she is a gunslinger was entirely untrue,” Spock says quietly. “I recognize that her physical appearance and demeanor indicate otherwise -”
“All the crazy's a ruse, then?”
“I do not believe that is necessarily the case. Indeed, I believe her to be perfectly genuine with us. At the present all I can advise is that it would be imprudent to irritate her. Or her crew.”
“It's not her crew,” Jim says, half-amused. “Oh, and speaking of physical appearances - the, uh, relations officer.”
“Jayne,” Spock supplies, his face impassive.
“Did you see the looks he was giving you?”
“I was aware of his preoccupation with me, yes,” Spock says calmly. “From the subtle attentions paid to me by all members of the crew of Serenity, I propose that none of them have been in contact with cultures possessing qualities other than standard human appearances. Even Zoe -” and the name is damn awkward in his mouth, “who appeared distinctly unruffled in the face of the surprises encountered today,” namely, the knowledge that there was no past-tense associated with the planet Earth, “blatantly assessed my distinctly Vulcan anatomy repeatedly.”
Jim moves fast, straddling Spock's lap, one knee pressed awkwardly against the arm of the couch, against which Spock had shifted to make room for him. “Can I assess your anatomy?” he deadpans.
“Permission granted,” Spock answers with a quirked eyebrow.
III.
“There are apples aboard,” River tells Mal. “I heard them. Officers, in the middle of the gangplank, ready to jump off and all for the sake of a sparkling fruit.”
“Ain't we got more to eavesdrop about than gorram apples, River?”
“Mm,” River says, and shrugs. “They're boring. They mostly think like Simon, routines and gorram charts.” Then she grins. “Excepting Commander Spock, whose brain is made all of sand. Fine. Prickly, though.”
“Anything I should be knowin' about?”
“Not to frown over. But there's regiments and regulations all in his head,” River says. “Also sex.”
Mal's shoulders hunch slightly, as if in defeat. River chortles delightedly, and shakes her head. “Not like that,” she says.
“Thought I'd told you a few times too many to stop having conversations with my brain, albatross,” Mal says.
“Sometimes interesting,” she says lightly. “I would throw punches at the Kobayashi Maru. You would fail.” Her eyes light up again. “I'll wear the hats in this 'verse. The braids.” Her fingers stray to her wrists, worrying her sleeves.
“You'd not look half-bad in braids,” Mal says, weaving a few strands of her hair through his fingers. She leans her head into his hand, and he hesitates a moment with his fingers cupping her crown. “Kirk should be here by now,” he mutters, withdrawing back to his chair across the table. “Don't know why you think here's the place to be, girl.”
“Keep you safe,” River says. “But apples are necessary, first.” She clambers to her feet and dances to the door, which slides open expectantly. Kirk nearly runs into her, but she's ducking out of his way before he even realizes. His eyes widen slightly, and Mal can't help but smirk. River's got them baffled, all right.
“Captain Reynolds,” Kirk says smoothly, “I'm afraid we've run into some complications with your ship. It seems your timeline's space travel developed significantly differently from ours. From what Engineer Frye has told us about Serenity's fuel intake systems, it seems we won't be able to reach a station with the right resources for some time.”
“Define 'some time',” Mal insists, trying not to growl.
“Starfleet Command has us en route to a weeklong diplomatic seminar two days from here. Much of my crew will be taking shore leave in the system while a select team - including any maintenance personnel necessary to complete your repairs - continue business as usual. We've lodged a request to detour to an adequate station after that. Assuming it's granted, you'll be set in two weeks.” Kirk looks strained, as if this speech was a great effort.
“It's longer than we'd hoped,” Mal says, “and I hope you understand we've no way at present of paying for these repairs. It's an unlovely situation all around. But. We're better off this way than if you'd left us dangling in space, so I'm not one to complain about the delay.” And now he empathizes with Kirk's strained look, maybe - it's been a long time since he's had to carry on such polite conversation. He's never been one for formalities. (But that can't possibly be Kirk's problem, he rationalizes. Captain of a ship like this must take only the fanciest-talking mouths in the damn 'verse.)
River saunters back in with an armful of apples. She tosses one to Kirk, who catches it only instinctively, staring at her in astonishment; the second she presses into Mal's hand as if trying to communicate something in their moment of shared contact with the apple. The third she sets on the table in front of the chair on Captain Kirk's right, and the fourth she holds between both hands as she settles in the chair across from Mal. After a moment, she begins to twist at the stem.
Mal has already taken out his knife and is cutting slices from the apple. Kirk is looking at his as if afraid it's been poisoned, and sure enough, after a moment, River says sweetly, “If you need to ascertain the edibility of this apple, we won't be offended,” and Mal mutters, “Speak for yourself,” but really it's the truth. Kirk shrugs and takes an enormous bite, and Mal can't help but wince, thinking too many years back to pressure bombs and ribcages.
“Thanks,” Kirk says awkwardly to River, and she beams at his crooked hesitant smile.
“The grapevine informed me that on informal occasions, you relate stories about the misunderstandings that come from differing species' ideas of what constitutes a ceremony of holy matrimony,” she says earnestly. Kirk's eyes widen again, and he pauses, then chews his gigantic mouthful of apple more enthusiastically.
“River, this ain't exactly -” Mal says warningly, and then what the girl's saying hits him and his curiosity overcomes his common sense. “Huh. You mean to say you've been accidentally married, too?”
IV.
“Aye, but what does it do?”
Scotty's scratching his head, hands propped against Serenity's still engine, leaning against it and not-quite-scowling at what Kaylee's called a 'port compression coil', a piece that she claims is fully operational even though it doesn't seem to have any purpose at all.
“Well, just about nothin',” she says, unperturbed, although her voice is muffled because she's lying beneath the engine. “Sort of serves as a buffer from everything to everything else, maybe. 'Sides, it don't matter particular what it does long as I know Serenity don't run a thing without it.”
She slides out from under the engine and dabs at the large brown drops of engine fluid on her cheek, although all she succeeds in doing is blotting them from small liquid flecks to coin-sized patches of grime. She stands, but her smile fades slightly and she takes on a bit of confusion when she sees Scotty's consternation.
“It's different from what you're used to, I guess,” she says, looking down.
“Aye, lass, I'd say that again,” he says. “My engine room is likely larger than your wee ship! And I've got a crew of incompetent ensigns at my bidding, too.” Her lips twitch slightly, a glib smile of acknowledgement, and Scotty can feel her ego shrinking into itself. “It's incredible that you and this bitty thing can fly a ship as sure as the bloody Federation flagship.” She looks up again, and this time her smile is genuine, and the question comes from his mouth like it was greased and sent down a vertical chute. “D'ye love her?”
She looks at him in almost-indignation, and he softens and answers for her. “O' course ye do. Cannae imagine there's a soul steps on her decks with a beatin' heart that don't.”
She looks down, flushing now - he's said the right thing. “And you?” she asks hesitantly. “And - and Enterprise? Or is it different -” and she starts to speak faster, as if trying to take back the question, “being an assignment, you know, and - and being military, and -”
“She talks to me at night,” Scotty cuts her off, his voice soft and low. “Hums mostly, but sometimes wakes me if she's upset. There's nowhere I can go she's nae tagging along. Corridors and turbolifts and Jeffries tubes and quarters and mess hall she's under my feet and under my fingers, giving me food and breath and bein' all that's twixt me and the black of space. When she hurts, I fix her. I know every bit of her, and I reckon she of me, and I can't imagine either there's a person gets to know a lady like we know ours that don't fall more than a bit in love.” He thinks he's staring off wistfully into empty air, but when he pulls himself back in he realizes it's her he's staring at - Kaylee - and she's looking back. He clears his throat, and then wishes he hadn't because she starts and looks back at the base of the engine.
“Xie-xie,” she says, not looking at him. “I know. She is awful beautiful, your ship.”
He chuckles. “Not sure Cap'n Kirk'd like to hear you call 'er mine,” he says. “Enterprise isn't monogamous, strictly speakin' - and he's just as smitten and possessive as I am.”
“Cap'n too,” she says, and then, embarrassed, “Mine, I mean. That is, Cap'n Reynolds.”
“Aye, lass, I knew what ye meant,” he says, and now she's even more embarrassed. He decides to take a stab, because unlike all the other women he seems to have met, Ms. Frye is cheery as well as bright, and more importantly, understands that the Enterprise will always be his first woman. “Ye know, we've been at work here a few hours now - say we liberate some food and look over these ship's schematics I hear ye mention.”
Her face falls, ruddier than ever, and his heart sinks with it. “Thing is, we're pretty scant for food,” she says, turning away to hide her expression and digging in a little metal cabinet. “We've just got protein compounds - nothin' fit for feedin' guests, Chief Scott -”
“Scotty, please, Miss Kaylee,” he says, understanding, “Your hospitality has been lovely, but I believe if we look much further we'll find ye are in fact a guest aboard the Enterprise. Captain Kirk made a point of insisting you help yourself to our synthesizers. And from the sound of things, ye've been far too long without a sandwich. And I can show ye our engine room, if -”
“What's a sandwich?” she asks, brightening as she pulls the schematics from the drawer.
“Oh, poor lass,” he whimpers, and then takes her arm gently. “Come wi' me. Ye've a world of excitement before ye.”
V.
Sulu brings his latest bruises and medicinal herbs to Sickbay once every two weeks, like clockwork. He hadn't anticipated to be giving combat lessons today, not with all the command staff so busy with their strange visitors, but Kirk had looked like he could use a break from running circles around the little pilot, and one of Serenity's women had shown up and pronounced the fight much more stimulating than the hubbub she usually witnessed.
He's carrying the aloe-hybrid awkwardly against his belly, since the insides of his arms are too sore for it to be comfortable to rest the pot on them, and as he approaches Sickbay, a man in a crisp vest and a peculiarly ill-matching and informal neckerchief takes a few hurried steps forwards and reaches out his arm. It takes Sulu a moment to realize that the man is planning to hold the door for him, and it isn't until he reaches the entryway and the automatic doors slide smoothly open that the poor fellow's face flushes. He grins sheepishly.
“Still not used to this technology, I guess,” he says, standing there at the doorway as Sulu takes the last few steps. It's clear he's truly embarrassed.
“Thought that counts,” Sulu says, inclining his head as if to say it happens to all of us now and then, even when it really doesn't. The man sweeps in behind him, and McCoy gives a grunt of recognition to each of them, liberating the plant and hurrying it into his office.
“Uh,” the stranger says, turning to him, “I'm Simon. Tam. Serenity's doctor.”
“Hikaru Sulu,” he responds, proffering a hand, and they shake neatly. “I'm the ranking pilot. Good to meet you.” Simon's grip is light but not weak, and he adjusts his neckerchief nervously, glancing towards McCoy's office. Sulu sits on one of the beds and decides not to take his shirt off just yet.
“Here to review the technology?” he suggests conversationally.
“Seems like the thing to do,” Simon says with a shrug. “Everyone having a confab with their counterparts. Uh... River hasn't been bothering you, has she?”
“Hmm?”
“My sister's our pilot, I thought she might have been... but I guess she's been keeping Mal company.” Startlement dashes across his figures, and he corrects hastily, “Captain Reynolds,” looking so abashed it's nearly comical. “Are you...” He looks towards the office. “Doctor McCoy doesn't seem to be in much of a hurry coming back out here. Are you here for medical attention, or just...?”
“Routine stuff,” Sulu says with what he hopes is a rueful grin. “I do hand-to-hand lessons, various combat practices with the crew. I enjoy it, but once I cracked a couple ribs and it took me a bit too long to figure it out. Ever since then McCoy has me come in every other week to make sure I'm all in one piece.” He rolls his eyes, but Simon is nodding.
“If only my crew was as thoughtful with their recreational incidents of bodily harm,” Simon answers with sardonic wistfulness, and Sulu laughs.
“It's mostly just me who listens, actually,” he admits, now a little sheepish himself, as if he shouldn't be quite so obedient. Truth is, he doesn't mind Sickbay the way the rest of the bridge crew seem to - maybe because he's very rarely hurt badly enough to have to stay more than an hour or two. He visits sometimes unscheduled - at first always under the guise of making sure McCoy is making good use of his plants, and later for tea (or whiskey) and light conversation. Every time he's seen Kirk enter the Sickbay of his own free will, it's either been with a jovial intent to irritate his CMO, or shrouded in a sort of funereal gloom, his inexplicably boundless energy muted.
Simon grins anyway, and then after a lingering moment eye contact, looks back towards McCoy's office again. “So I was wondering,” he says, and then his voice lowers to a hush, “is he always... quite so...?”
“He's an old grump, if that's what you mean,” Sulu says, not bothering to modulate his volume, and it's quite funny to see the young doctor's wince, particularly in harmony with the scowl on McCoy's face as he emerges from his office. He meets McCoy's eyes over Simon's shoulder and announces cheerfully, “His bedside manner's crap.”
“Only for idiots who waste my time by intentionally getting beaten up on a regular basis,” McCoy growls, and Simon almost jumps back, poor boy.
“To be fair, I'm doing most of the beating-up,” Sulu corrects. “And when I'm not, it's really not intentional. The Captain just gets in a lucky blow now and then. As captains are wont to do.” And this time Simon practically chokes on a snort of laughter, trying to disguise it by looking away at the machinery, far too close to be actually examining it.
“So, Doctor Tam,” McCoy says, whapping Sulu's arm rather harder than necessary to get his attention, tugging at his sleeve with a raised eyebrow, “would you care to brag up your ship's medical superiority?”
“Not particularly,” Simon says. “I'd be more keen on finding out what I can do to get access to medical research on brain damage. More specifically, ameliorations of the amygdala.” He turns away from the blinking console, his expression twitching a little as Sulu strips off his black undertunic and grimaces at the dark blossoms of bruises on his upper arms and a particularly large blotch across the right side of his abdomen.
“From what I hear, I should be assuming you're talking about the human amygdala?” McCoy says, still grumbling but with a new hint of professionalism. Simon's eyes widen slightly. “Can't imagine why, it's not nearly as interesting as... not that there's an awful lot of research on Vulcans in any case, especially not anymore, but their overdeveloped emotional control centers certainly make for an interesting -”
“I'm not sure he even knows what a Vulcan is, Doc,” Sulu says, amused, poking at the bruise on his side. McCoy slaps his hand away.
Simon is trying so, so hard not to gape. “My crewmates - well, you're right, we'd never encountered - but my sister used the term to refer to Commander Spock...?”
“Spock's only half-Vulcan,” Sulu says helpfully.
“I was thinking human research, but I'd certainly be open to -”
“My God, man, did you let Jim crush every minor blood vessel in your oblique region?” McCoy interrupts with a growl, slapping Sulu's hands away from his side again and running his fingers experimentally over the bruise, which is roughly the size and color of an overripe eggplant. “Were you using foils or baseball bats?”
“He did seem a little stressed,” Sulu admits, and then looks at Simon apologetically. “Sorry, you were saying?”
“What is that?” Simon asks, taking a hesitantly awed step forwards as he watches the large bruise fade as the faint light sweeps back and forth across it.
“Vascular regenerator,” McCoy says. “Don't tell me you don't have one?”
Simon gapes openly for a second, and then stutters a little before shaking his head. “There were experimental designs, when I worked on Osiris, but even when we dealt with Alliance healers after Miranda, their best technologies still took at least...at least half a day to do the sort of deep tissue repair...” He blinks. “Is that portable?”
“The kind of portable that's worth ten cases of Kentucky's best bourbon,” McCoy says, his eyebrows quirked.
“Pretty much no,” Sulu interprets, unable to quite maintain his grin through the tingling discomfort of regeneration pressing against his ribs.
“I'd ask for schematics, but from the updates I've gotten, it sounds like your technology is pretty incompatible with ours,” Simon says, leaning back against the extra bed.
“Scarring I saw on your Captain says you still use Goddamn twentieth-century medicine. Stitches,” McCoy practically spits.
“But we've got digital imaging technology you'd never believe,” Simon says. “I got a high-tech neural imager about six months back...”
Sulu phases out, amusing himself by looking back and forth between the matching intense expressions of the dark-haired doctors. When McCoy has finished patching him up, the man shifts to Sulu's other side so that he's standing across from Simon, next to Sulu leaning up against the exam table, Sulu's undertunic beneath McCoy's palm, resting heavily back against the bed.
(Doesn't matter anyway, since Sulu's not entirely opposed to taking advantage of the excuse to hang around these particular men in his shirtless-and-muscular state.)
VI.
The girl had greeted him as if he was an old friend, except with a cheery, “Cupcake!” and he'd stalked off without even thinking about it. It wasn't the first time a complete stranger had called him by the five-years-past mock-name, but this time he couldn't even curse at her in Chinese. (When he'd decided to drop his Vulcan elective two weeks after the bar incident, Uhura had taken pity on him - agreed to talk to him again and advised him that Mandarin had the best profanity.)
Gerry's not sure he likes where this has led him: Serenity's an unattractive piece of shit, and even more so with the trouble her crew's caused him already. He doesn't appreciate his long-awaited shore leave being chopped unceremoniously in half, or that his Chief Engineer has been spending all his time pointlessly feeding his life-force into the shallow tray of luh-suh calling itself an extinct insect, instead of the ship he claims to love like a wife.
Hails to Scotty have yielded zilch, and he knows the man in technically off-duty, but the lord of the distillery has long since evolved the ability to sleep whilst bartending and listening to disgruntled crew bitch, so dammit, he's gonna find Scott even if it means misusing his security clearance to board the damned bane of his existence.
He tries not to make noise, but the floors are this metal mesh shit, and he's wearing heavy regulation boots. Everything echoes until he gets abovedecks, at which point he follows a chain of tiny decorative lights, the sound of low voices, and the clanking of tools into the oddly homey engine room.
The young female engineer sees him and starts, nearly choking on her drink. “Scotty,” she says when she's swallowed. There's a prodigious thunk from the back, and an, “Och,” at which Gerry and the engineer roll their eyes in unison.
“Wha's up, Kaylee?” Scotty's disembodied voice asks.
“Lieutenant Martin from Security for you, sir,” he responds.
“Ah, Gerry lad,” Scotty says, emerging from behind the engine. “What's news?”
“I'm in need of some supplies, Chief,” Gerry says stoically.
“Of the brewish sort?” he asks, and Gerry can't help but wince. “No worries, mate - Kaylee here's got an engine distillery of her verrah own.”
“Oh,” he says, and spends a moment deciding not to throw a temper tantrum. Kaylee raises a shoddy metal cup sloshing with amber liquid and it's then that he realizes they're both a little cross-eyed. Kaylee takes a half-step back, drops into her buggering rainbow hammock, and fishes out another shrapnel-scrap mug that looks as if it'd as soon cut his lips to ribbons as hold drinkable liquid. Scotty grabs the cup and disappears again, reemerging with two newly filled and handing one to Gerry.
“Have a sit,” Scotty says, throwing himself down next to Kaylee in the hammock and jostling her so that her liquor splashes onto her face. She snorts and swats him. Gerry settles gingerly onto a wooden crate, which appears to have been lifted straight from a twentieth-century barn.
“We was just sayin' how funny Vulcans are,” Kaylee announces. “My verse the closest we get to aliens is Reavers, and they were th' 'lliance's fault for being a go tsao de hwun dan.” She wrinkles her nose. “I really can't help none I swear in Chinese, you know,” she informs Scotty, who waves a floppily dismissive hand as Gerry finds himself nodding sagely. Their eyes go to him, and he shifts, self-conscious.
“It's a yu bun duh hwun chiou that can't swear in Chinese,” he says gruffly, taking a large swig of swill, which burns in a way he might've labelled unpleasant if he weren't trying to get drunk. Kaylee laughs delightedly and claps a couple times.
“See, even Lieutenant Martin does,” she says. “You're just bung ignorant, Mister Scott, that's all. Chinese's got the colorfullest cusses...”
“Call me Gerry,” he says, still gruff because he doesn't want to like her.
“Gerry, help me teach Scotty how 's done,” she says. “Give us one o' yer cussin's, we'll fix it up.”
“Ah,” Scotty says, leaning way back and nearly flipping the hammock. Then he springs to his feet, fiercely proffering his cup in one hand, the other a wagging finger in an invisible ensign's face. “Lipkin! The fuck ye do to th' converters, lad? We've leaks in three of the Jeffries 'n yer reclinin' on yer barmy arse f'r the last time! If ye were a lad o' mine I'd have yer hide nine ways from ever-livin' Sunday an' make ye mewl like a kitten new-slid from its bitchy ma'am!” He pauses a moment, still contorted in energetic rage.
There's a silence, and then Kaylee begins to giggle. Gerry isn't drunk yet but particularly knowing Ensign Lipkin, it's impossible to stifle his laughter - and, if he's honest with himself, downright illogical too.
“That's a piece of art,” Gerry says to Kaylee, who is still snorting with laughter, sighing and wiping her eyes. “I'm not sure we can cut that apart.”
“He'll pick up on it,” Kaylee agrees, patting Scotty's knee affectionately. He looks inordinately proud.
“So far all's I've got is gorramit and go-se,” he admits, abashed.
“Gorramit's not Chinese,” Gerry says.
“Just slang,” Kaylee confirms.
“I should make Nyota teach me more languages,” Scotty says ruefully. “Once I started goin' on away missions she taught me the necessaries - lower yer weapons an' release the cap'n an' 'scuse me in abou' fifteen alien languages, but other'n that an' the Irish I learnt a' th' cradle I'm hardly...” He trails off and frowns into his cup. “You empty, Gerry?”
He is.
“Cap'll be pissy, we drink it all,” Kaylee calls as Scotty disappears for refills. “'n River too, though nobody knows that but me... but I promise, a pissy River is a thing no-one's keen t'see.”
“River, she's the pilot?” Gerry asks, grabbing his cup from Scotty and gulping half of it.
“Yep, past two years,” Kaylee says.
“She's a little 'un,” Scotty says, missing the hammock and sitting hard at Kaylee's feet. “Can' see 'er drinkin'...”
“Nineteen,” Kaylee says.
“Och, Chekov's age, then. I s'pose,” Scotty concedes.
“She's a little strange,” Gerry says, which is as close to tactful as he can get; it's an accomplishment not to use Chinese to express just what he thinks of the girl.
“River? Crazy as anythin' in the verse,” Kaylee says cheerfully. “But jen duh sh tyen tsai - smarter'n anyone you ever met. An' she might look like a little thing, but she'll knock anyone flat on 'is back he look at Cap or Simon funny.”
“Och, Mr. Spock'd give 'er a run for 'er money,” Scotty says, leaning his head against Kaylee's leg. “Chekov too maybe, for the genius-ness. Smarts're one thing, but in th' realm of theoretical physics...”
“She'd destroy any man walkin',” Kaylee says stoutly.
“Tha's yer leg,” Scotty observes suddenly of the solid thing against which he's resting his head. He leans away, grinning but embarrassed. “Sorry, lass.”
“Nonsense,” Kaylee says briskly, warpping an arm around his neck and tugging him back to lean on her. Gerry grins; Scotty winks and closes his eyes. For a long while they just sit and drink together; Gerry's the one to get refills next, although it takes him a while to find the still in the back of the engine.
“'s it Delta yet?” Scotty asks into the companionable silence.
“'s 2100 hours,” Gerry says. “You on shift?”
“Cap'n Kirk told me write my own hours 'til S'renity's patched,” Scotty mumbles.
“He's a nice man, your Cap,” Kaylee says blurrily.
“Kaylee!” a voice barks from the hallway; Scotty starts awake and sits upright.
“Jayne,” Kaylee calls back, bored, “I thought Cap told you'n'Zo -”
“Mal and River're back from their daily dose of fun,” Jayne says, stomping into the doorway. “You know their fancy synthers won't gimme a drink?” He looks around, his lip curling. “You havin' a gorram tea party or getting' us fixed and off this piece of unnatural fei-oo?”
“Think you're lucky Scotty doesn't speak Chinese,” Gerry mutters, although Scotty's already letting Kaylee coax him back to rest against her thigh, supremely unconcerned.
“Don' remember askin' you,” Jayne says.
“Want a cup?” Kaylee asks, unperturbed. She tosses Jayne the last metal mug, which he catches easily.
“'s what I came for,” Jayne grumbles, shouldering in towards the still. “you gonna make me sit on my pee-gu or find me a gorram chair?”
“I brought the drinks,” Kaylee says. “Someone else's in charge o' chairs.”
“Fine,” Jayne says, setting his cup by the engine with a suspicious glare at Gerry. He stomps back out.
“Grab one for Gerry!” Kaylee shouts.
“He can grab one for hisself!” Jayne shouts back. Gerry lumbers to his feet, setting the again-empty shrapnel-cup on the crate and following Jayne's hulking shape down the hall.
“You one of the fancy engineerers?” Jayne asks, not looking at him.
“Security,” Gerry answers. Jayne laughs.
When they've grabbed a pair of scrubbed wooden chairs (this ship is just too cozy), they trudge back silently towards the engine room. Gerry's rolling his eyes by the time he realizes what he's hearing; Jayne grabs his arm and anchors him back as if there's imminent danger. He is extremely strong.
“They're snogging,” Gerry says quietly, patiently.
“Kaylee ain't snogged no one since she stopped ruttin' with the doc,” Jayne whispers back roughly, defensively. He sets his chair down and sits in it firmly, not letting go of Gerry's arm. He reluctantly follows suit, right next to the man.
“My drink's in there,” he says after a moment.
“Mine too,” Jayne says.
VII.
He's not entirely sure if he's just pretending to be sleepy for the sake of pressing his cheek against her leg, or if he's actually had enough to drink that he's dozy. At least, not 'til Kaylee shakes his shoulder and she's talking to him in a gentle whisper, the words thinning like fog and wrapping around him. She's articulate but he doesn't know what she's saying; her fingers work at his shoulders and he's not sure if the moan he hears in his head actually came from his mouth or not.
“Scotty, come on,” she whispers, and he finally understands the words, except he doesn't know what she's asking him to do.
“Sorry, lass,” he answers just as quietly, wondering why are they whispering, is someone sleeping?
She laughs and cups a hand underneath his elbow, lifting, and oh, she's asking him to sit in the hammock with her again. He can do that. He lets her take his hands and lift him, although it's a strange angle, and the lights are dim and everything is a little blurry but she's smiling at him, that much is clear.
“Och, sorry,” he mumbles again, and he's pressing the crown of his head into the curve of her neck before he remembers he hasn't asked any permissions. But her hand comes up and around his shoulders, her fingers loosely stroking the other side of his neck and cheek, and he could close his eyes but then he'd be asleep again and that is certainly not what he wants. She laughs again, softly, and he wonders if he said something out loud.
“You're so sleepy,” she says, the laughter still dancing in her voice, and he lifts his head to meet her eyes and see if they're dancing too. They're serious and affectionate and his lips are smiling without him having to tell them to, which is probably good. “Come here,” she says, pulling her legs up and twisting so that now she's stretched out in the hammock, up on her elbows, and he's still sitting there dumb with his feet dangling over the edge but leaning into her. She's pulling gently, and finally he realizes that he's to mirror her movement; he wonders if he should take off his shoes but doesn't. He lifts himself fully into the hammock, which is really too small for two people, and the fabric is taut, pushing their bodies together. He's twisted, half on his side and half on his back, her knees nestled behind his but his torso twisting so he can see her above him.
Sometime in the last couple of hours she's wiped her face; there are still dark spots of grease near her hairline and at the back of her jaw near her ears, but there's no sign of the spilled drink; she's shining faintly in the twinkling Christmas lights. Her hair is waving loose, curving at her chin, and he shifts to free his hand from the hammock pinning it, brushing some of the hair back from her eyes.
“It's a squeeze,” he says quietly. “Ye don' mind?” Her eyes crinkle and she lowers herself to nestle beside him. They fit together like parts in her ship's beautiful old engine, intimate pieces of metal that have worn away to fit one another - as if this niche they've settled into in the last two days was carved out for them long before they met. He tilts his head, twists so that they're facing, brings his hand to her hip and pulls her up the last couple of inches so that they're even. He wants to do this right, because usually when he gets an opportunity to ruin something it's Enterprise and he knows he can fix anything, but this is something he'd have no idea how to fix, so it's a lot harder to jump.
“Scotty,” Kaylee says softly, and meets his eyes from two inches away, “you don't kiss me pretty soon, we -”
He lifts his other hand to cup the back of her head, but he doesn't have to pull her forwards, she's already there, and he tucks his head to press his lips against hers. There's not a trace of sleep left in his body, but he feels slow, langurous, as if he has all the time in the world and will never need to breathe again. Kaylee's fingers dig through his hair and into his scalp, and she makes a sound against his mouth. It's a sound he's thinking too, and it's strange, because as he's kissing her it's occuring to him that they might be the same person, just different permutations in different universes, and she doesn't have sandwiches and he doesn't know Chinese, but as he's skating his fingers across her hip, thumb pressing against the bone through layers of clothing, and she's rubbing her thumbs across his cheekbones as if shining an apple, none of that seems to matter so much.
He shifts, and her lips part wider. She shivers and curls even closer to him, which he would've said was impossible. She kisses unsubtly - which he appreciates, and does his best to reciprocate - and right now there's something playful about the way her tongue is slipping into his mouth. She's definitely smiling. He plays along for a while, and then she lets him move. He drags a kiss across the line of her jaw, brushes his fingers lightly up her hairline where the smudges of oil darken her flushed skin, and sucks gently at her earlobe before giving it a nip, which is usually a pretty safe bet.
Sure enough, her fingers tighten in his hair, and she gasps a little; he exhales sharply against her neck and kisses his way down to her throat. She shucks her jacket quickly, and their fingers fumble together with the first two buttons of her blouse. Scotty presses his lips reverently against the notch between her collarbones. He lifts his hands to cup under her arms, and then runs them down her sides back to her hips so that the pads of his thumbs just barely pass over her breasts.
And it's suddenly not playful anymore; she shifts them so that she's halfway on top of him, and there's a distinct aggression in the way she lowers her mouth to his, raking her fingers across his chest and pressing her hips down against him possessively. She's breathing harder now, and Scotty lifts his head from the hammock to meet her, and then suddenly she breaks away from him starts up, her eyes wide, and claps a hand to her mouth.
“Tyen shiao duh, jen dao mei,” she curses, and then starts to giggle, of all things, “Where did Jayne and Gerry -?”
“I thought they left!” Scotty exclaims, trying to sit up, but the hammock is rocking as they both fumble to move. She shakes her head, pointing at the abandoned cups by the engine and the crate, Jayne's still full to the brim. She grabs his arm to steady them, her eyes still large in horrified realization, and no, there's no point in being embarrassed, especially not when she's in the same state - he laughs too. They stumble from the hammock together and Kaylee's clasping his hand tight; they creep to the door and look out.
The hall is pretty dark, but not fifteen feet from the door are a pair of chairs practically hugging each other, they're so close together. Jayne is sitting in one, his arms crossed, and although they can't see his expression it's clear he's looking straight at them. Gerry's head is resting heavily on his shoulder, the lieutenant's mouth wide-open in sleep.
“Better've been worth it,” Jayne grumbles, lurching to his feet and moving towards them; Gerry falls against the vacated chair and smacks his head thoroughly before he's awake enough to stop himself. Jayne shoulders past, grabs his cup from its resting place beside the engine, and looks Kaylee and Scotty thoroughly up and down with a smirk before trudging back out.
“You be in your bunk?” Kaylee calls after him teasingly, but he just grunts as he brushes past Gerry, who's clutching his head and still blinking off sleep. She looks at Scotty appraisingly, wraps an arm around his waist, and gives him a look that says, very clearly, that they have unfinished business.
Translations:
(taken from the Firefly published scripts and cobbled together as best I can; feel free to correct if I've messed any up)
dong ma? - Understand?
Xie-xie - thank you
luh-suh - garbage
go tsao de hwun dan - dog-humping bastard
yu bun duh hwun chiou - stupid fink
jen duh sh tyen tsai - an absolute genius
pee-gu - ass
Tyen shiao duh jen dao mei - In the name of all that's sacred, just our luck
Notes:
I'm usually a Mal/River shipper, but it's difficult to resist the tug of having put two nineteen-year-old supergeniuses together on a ship. IDK, maybe River and Chekov will just dance some Russian ballet together and then gossip and share relationship advice... And I can't WAIT to write some mad telepathic play between Spock and River.
Further hijinx shall, in fact, ensue.