157 Fic: Undertones (Mal/Simon)
Title Undertones
Author Brutti ma buoni
Rating R
Word Count 875
Prompt 157 Love - slash pairings
Characters/Pairing (if any) Mal/Simon
A/N: Originally written for maleslashminis: a prompt by wesleysgirl who wanted Mal playing doctor, with cursing and snark
SCENE: Serenity’s cargo hold. Mal sits alone, playing cards. He looks up as Simon slowly inches onto the loading ramp.
“Ow. Ow. Owowowowow.”
“Easy there, doctor. Somethin’ amiss?”
“Oh, how could you tell? The blood, the screaming - it’s so hard to detect.”
“Seems to me you’re a man in need of some assistance. And I’d appear to be the only assistance to hand - so I’d watch that pretty mouth of yours before you get snarky with me, Doc.”
“Snark? Is that even a word? Oh, good gods, never mind that. I’m sorry - and you’re right, I need some help. That...what’s it called? Freighter? Dredger?”
“Lighter. Get on with it, I ain’t got all year to hear your grief.”
“Yes, thank you for the sympathy. I’m touched. The lighter, it’s not very well maintained. I was on hold duty, just knocked open a couple of storage cases and there were all these splinters everywhere.”
“You got a splinter? And that’s what you’re hollerin’ over?”
“BIG splinter. In my thigh. Big splinter which unless I’m misremembering many years of medical training is extremely, really, very close to my femoral artery. Which if ripped could have me bleeding out in a few minutes, so yes, it seemed worth getting some help before we had a major medical emergency and our only medic passed out dying in his own blood.”
“Huh. Take your point.”
*
Mal cautiously propped Simon up as they shuffled towards the Medilab. Major splinters in tender places hurt like stink, no question. Shouldn’t tease the boy, except it was irresistible.
His mental grin faded though, as Simon talked him through the extraction process (three times, for safety), laid out all the tools and, with a deep breath, accepted it was time to act. The Doc was actually scared about this - and he wasn’t a coward, so... Son of a mother of a pig with feet of clay, this could actually go bad.
He was so horrified by the thought he almost skipped appreciating the moment Simon took his pants off. But only almost.
Besides, it was charitable to keep the boy distracted. Commenting on his lily-white but well muscled thighs was pure kindliness. Or possibly Mal’s blabbermouth was speaking his thoughts while he was trying to focus on the job at hand.
And focus was needed. The ‘splinter’ was inches long and pretty thick, deeply embedded. Mal got a good grip on the projecting section, and for a moment both men thought the situation would turn out simple. But no - jagged wood splintered further, and Mal was left holding a bare stump, knowing the bulk of the intruder was still to be tackled.
He tried to ease the bad moment, but his blabbermouth took over again. “Did I ever mention, I’m not good with blood?”
Simon’s facade was fractured; the fear all too obvious. Pain too: anaesthesia not nearly as lavish as either would have preferred - they needed Simon as conscious as possible. He bit out four sharp syllables only. “Shut up and cut.”
Mal did as he was told. (There’s a first time for everything, he figured). Cut and swabbed, tied, cauterised, injected. Cleared out every speck of wood and rust, washed and bonded and bandaged and at last it was done.
He eyed his work with fair satisfaction. “Hell yeah. That’s the gorram lot.” He leant back with a cheerful smirk.
And Simon let out a long breath. And swore. A lot. “Gorramfuckinpigshittingfuckinassmother...” And then stopped, turned green and shaky, opened his mouth to speak again, and shut it without uttering a sound.
That would be reaction setting in. Mal put one hand on Simon’s shivering shoulder, and wordlessly urged him to lie down. Simon huddled obediently, hunched on the uncomfortable hospital cot. Couldn’t feel good.
Mal slipped out to Simon’s quarters, fetched a soft silken blanket from his personal supply. It’d smell less like hospital chill, at the least. It was a small victory when Simon half-smiled into the blanket folds, wrapping himself more warmly.
Mal comforted himself Simon would likely never remember this soft moment. Captain had a reputation to maintain.
*
Three days later, Simon slipped into Mal’s rack late in the night. “You did a good job, Captain. I’m pretty much completely healed.”
He slipped down to sit on the edge of the bunk, and reached out a hand to the still-prone Mal.
“Told you before, there’s no fare to pay for keeping you safe.”
“Told you before, I’m not trying to pay a debt. That’s not what this is.” Simon leant down and licked lightly across Mal’s chest. “It’s about knowing how you taste and wanting more of it.”
“That so? You turnin’ cannibal on me? First sign of Reaverness, I’m told.” Mal’s words were denied by his hands, which were flipping back the blanket to welcome Simon back where he belonged - comfortably spooned.
His thoughts turned southward. “Somethin’ slow and sweet tonight, all right? I’m not figurin’ on washing’ your blood off me again soon.”
Simon smiled, unseen. Try though he might to conceal it, the Captain’s heart was soft. He reached back to find a much harder Mal-part, and start working on blotting out the bad bloody scare he’d given the Captain. Purely out of kindness, of course.
~~~~~~~~~~
Author Brutti ma buoni
Rating R
Word Count 875
Prompt 157 Love - slash pairings
Characters/Pairing (if any) Mal/Simon
A/N: Originally written for maleslashminis: a prompt by wesleysgirl who wanted Mal playing doctor, with cursing and snark
SCENE: Serenity’s cargo hold. Mal sits alone, playing cards. He looks up as Simon slowly inches onto the loading ramp.
“Ow. Ow. Owowowowow.”
“Easy there, doctor. Somethin’ amiss?”
“Oh, how could you tell? The blood, the screaming - it’s so hard to detect.”
“Seems to me you’re a man in need of some assistance. And I’d appear to be the only assistance to hand - so I’d watch that pretty mouth of yours before you get snarky with me, Doc.”
“Snark? Is that even a word? Oh, good gods, never mind that. I’m sorry - and you’re right, I need some help. That...what’s it called? Freighter? Dredger?”
“Lighter. Get on with it, I ain’t got all year to hear your grief.”
“Yes, thank you for the sympathy. I’m touched. The lighter, it’s not very well maintained. I was on hold duty, just knocked open a couple of storage cases and there were all these splinters everywhere.”
“You got a splinter? And that’s what you’re hollerin’ over?”
“BIG splinter. In my thigh. Big splinter which unless I’m misremembering many years of medical training is extremely, really, very close to my femoral artery. Which if ripped could have me bleeding out in a few minutes, so yes, it seemed worth getting some help before we had a major medical emergency and our only medic passed out dying in his own blood.”
“Huh. Take your point.”
*
Mal cautiously propped Simon up as they shuffled towards the Medilab. Major splinters in tender places hurt like stink, no question. Shouldn’t tease the boy, except it was irresistible.
His mental grin faded though, as Simon talked him through the extraction process (three times, for safety), laid out all the tools and, with a deep breath, accepted it was time to act. The Doc was actually scared about this - and he wasn’t a coward, so... Son of a mother of a pig with feet of clay, this could actually go bad.
He was so horrified by the thought he almost skipped appreciating the moment Simon took his pants off. But only almost.
Besides, it was charitable to keep the boy distracted. Commenting on his lily-white but well muscled thighs was pure kindliness. Or possibly Mal’s blabbermouth was speaking his thoughts while he was trying to focus on the job at hand.
And focus was needed. The ‘splinter’ was inches long and pretty thick, deeply embedded. Mal got a good grip on the projecting section, and for a moment both men thought the situation would turn out simple. But no - jagged wood splintered further, and Mal was left holding a bare stump, knowing the bulk of the intruder was still to be tackled.
He tried to ease the bad moment, but his blabbermouth took over again. “Did I ever mention, I’m not good with blood?”
Simon’s facade was fractured; the fear all too obvious. Pain too: anaesthesia not nearly as lavish as either would have preferred - they needed Simon as conscious as possible. He bit out four sharp syllables only. “Shut up and cut.”
Mal did as he was told. (There’s a first time for everything, he figured). Cut and swabbed, tied, cauterised, injected. Cleared out every speck of wood and rust, washed and bonded and bandaged and at last it was done.
He eyed his work with fair satisfaction. “Hell yeah. That’s the gorram lot.” He leant back with a cheerful smirk.
And Simon let out a long breath. And swore. A lot. “Gorramfuckinpigshittingfuckinassmother...” And then stopped, turned green and shaky, opened his mouth to speak again, and shut it without uttering a sound.
That would be reaction setting in. Mal put one hand on Simon’s shivering shoulder, and wordlessly urged him to lie down. Simon huddled obediently, hunched on the uncomfortable hospital cot. Couldn’t feel good.
Mal slipped out to Simon’s quarters, fetched a soft silken blanket from his personal supply. It’d smell less like hospital chill, at the least. It was a small victory when Simon half-smiled into the blanket folds, wrapping himself more warmly.
Mal comforted himself Simon would likely never remember this soft moment. Captain had a reputation to maintain.
*
Three days later, Simon slipped into Mal’s rack late in the night. “You did a good job, Captain. I’m pretty much completely healed.”
He slipped down to sit on the edge of the bunk, and reached out a hand to the still-prone Mal.
“Told you before, there’s no fare to pay for keeping you safe.”
“Told you before, I’m not trying to pay a debt. That’s not what this is.” Simon leant down and licked lightly across Mal’s chest. “It’s about knowing how you taste and wanting more of it.”
“That so? You turnin’ cannibal on me? First sign of Reaverness, I’m told.” Mal’s words were denied by his hands, which were flipping back the blanket to welcome Simon back where he belonged - comfortably spooned.
His thoughts turned southward. “Somethin’ slow and sweet tonight, all right? I’m not figurin’ on washing’ your blood off me again soon.”
Simon smiled, unseen. Try though he might to conceal it, the Captain’s heart was soft. He reached back to find a much harder Mal-part, and start working on blotting out the bad bloody scare he’d given the Captain. Purely out of kindness, of course.
~~~~~~~~~~