Only So Long a Fight Can Last: Firefly
With thanks to copinggoggles
Only so long a fight can last.
The outsiders had left on their lièzhì ship and that was pretty much it; whole lotta riled up townsfolk and not a place to vent their collective spleens. Town was only so big, and everyone owed a favour to somebody, or was related to somebody, or parked their Yínghuŏchóng on another man's strip, if you wanted to look at it like that. Start a fight with your own folk in a town like that and ain't nobody gonna come out of it alive; won't stop 'til the last of 'em's lying in the dust, still with his boots on. Got to be loyal to your town so's your town'll stay loyal to you - got to love it 'cos the only other way out of it's the hemp fandango.
That or starting fights with outsiders.
Jem Babbet, he was one of them was always waiting. Waiting for the day when the town didn't get his back. Waiting for the day he could die with a song in his heart 'cos he always knew the bastards'd do him wrong, weren't his fault them gŏu cào de off-worlders take things wrong, no sir, never his damned fault. Jem figured the world owed him a living, figured it was his gorram father's fault he never managed to get it, and was just waiting for the day he died so's he could turn to the Universe and tell 'em it was someone else's responsibility.
So the barman winced, when there was another engine. Sounded expensive, too, not one of those piece o' shit smuggling boats. He could see Jem's face, could see the way people were shifting their weight in the corners of the bar, and he started putting the couple of things folks could break right back under the counter.
Two of 'em. Both tall; the first one in seemed to catch the sunlight and bring it into the bar with him, golden hair and pale skin, the kind of stupid-pretty face that'd get him in trouble in other towns, places where the folks weren't so friendly and the women weren't so plentiful.
The other one brought the shadows right back.
Something about the way the second one stood, the line of his coat, the scar on his face... something about him meant people's hands were a lot closer to their drinks than their gunbelts, without any one of 'em moving to fast, just in case. Only Jem wasn't looking over at the door, and Jem wasn't the quickest ship in the port, and Jem only ever reacted one way when he heard an unfamiliar voice in the bar.
"Say," he said, slurring just a little, sounded like he was hissing. "Say, fella. Ain't that a nice coat, there?"
"Well thank you," said Blondie, turning a shade of pink that'd likely get him killed, "thank you kindly."
Jem's mouth spread in something that weren't friendly enough to be a smile.
"Kinda... brown, though."
The scrape of chairs in corners. Blondie didn't look like he got the connection, looked down at his coat and across at Jem Babbet like he was trying to figure out a joke.
"Well, yes. It's tweed."
His friend got the joke, though. Sure he did. Twisted smile on his face as he drifted closer, step at a time, like he was in no hurry 'cos no fight was any sort of a fight until he was there.
"You an Independant?"
"Well I suppose I am something of an autonomous unit, yes, although I wouldn't say I was, in the current sense, an Independant. I'm not allowed to take sides."
"Not allowed my ass."
Jem wobbled to his feet, bottle still clutched in one hand and not a one of the other patrons lifting a finger to stop him, back him up, nothing. Barman figured it was wisest to disappear under the bar with his breakables.
"Language, my dear." And then, as Jem wound up to send him flying, "Oh, goodness, that's really going to hurt..."
"Yer damn right it's gonna - "
Clang.
Blondie tutted, smoothed down his coat with a smile on his face like a girl getting her first whistles on the high street.
"Well really. Isn't a tyre iron a little anachronistic?"
"The wheel's one of the longest surviving inventions, angel. At least pretend to have a sense of tradition."
"Do you know, I don't want a drink half so much as I did."
The other one looked around the bar; not a man jack of 'em wasn't focused on their drink as he held a hand out to Blondie.
"Come on," he said, smile lop-sided and moving towards sad, "I'll drive us back to London."
They walked out of the bar together into the sunset, the dark one with a little swagger like he knew it was still the biggest damn cliché this side of Earth-that-was, and no power in the gorram 'verse was gonna stop him.
Only so long a fight can last.
The outsiders had left on their lièzhì ship and that was pretty much it; whole lotta riled up townsfolk and not a place to vent their collective spleens. Town was only so big, and everyone owed a favour to somebody, or was related to somebody, or parked their Yínghuŏchóng on another man's strip, if you wanted to look at it like that. Start a fight with your own folk in a town like that and ain't nobody gonna come out of it alive; won't stop 'til the last of 'em's lying in the dust, still with his boots on. Got to be loyal to your town so's your town'll stay loyal to you - got to love it 'cos the only other way out of it's the hemp fandango.
That or starting fights with outsiders.
Jem Babbet, he was one of them was always waiting. Waiting for the day when the town didn't get his back. Waiting for the day he could die with a song in his heart 'cos he always knew the bastards'd do him wrong, weren't his fault them gŏu cào de off-worlders take things wrong, no sir, never his damned fault. Jem figured the world owed him a living, figured it was his gorram father's fault he never managed to get it, and was just waiting for the day he died so's he could turn to the Universe and tell 'em it was someone else's responsibility.
So the barman winced, when there was another engine. Sounded expensive, too, not one of those piece o' shit smuggling boats. He could see Jem's face, could see the way people were shifting their weight in the corners of the bar, and he started putting the couple of things folks could break right back under the counter.
Two of 'em. Both tall; the first one in seemed to catch the sunlight and bring it into the bar with him, golden hair and pale skin, the kind of stupid-pretty face that'd get him in trouble in other towns, places where the folks weren't so friendly and the women weren't so plentiful.
The other one brought the shadows right back.
Something about the way the second one stood, the line of his coat, the scar on his face... something about him meant people's hands were a lot closer to their drinks than their gunbelts, without any one of 'em moving to fast, just in case. Only Jem wasn't looking over at the door, and Jem wasn't the quickest ship in the port, and Jem only ever reacted one way when he heard an unfamiliar voice in the bar.
"Say," he said, slurring just a little, sounded like he was hissing. "Say, fella. Ain't that a nice coat, there?"
"Well thank you," said Blondie, turning a shade of pink that'd likely get him killed, "thank you kindly."
Jem's mouth spread in something that weren't friendly enough to be a smile.
"Kinda... brown, though."
The scrape of chairs in corners. Blondie didn't look like he got the connection, looked down at his coat and across at Jem Babbet like he was trying to figure out a joke.
"Well, yes. It's tweed."
His friend got the joke, though. Sure he did. Twisted smile on his face as he drifted closer, step at a time, like he was in no hurry 'cos no fight was any sort of a fight until he was there.
"You an Independant?"
"Well I suppose I am something of an autonomous unit, yes, although I wouldn't say I was, in the current sense, an Independant. I'm not allowed to take sides."
"Not allowed my ass."
Jem wobbled to his feet, bottle still clutched in one hand and not a one of the other patrons lifting a finger to stop him, back him up, nothing. Barman figured it was wisest to disappear under the bar with his breakables.
"Language, my dear." And then, as Jem wound up to send him flying, "Oh, goodness, that's really going to hurt..."
"Yer damn right it's gonna - "
Clang.
Blondie tutted, smoothed down his coat with a smile on his face like a girl getting her first whistles on the high street.
"Well really. Isn't a tyre iron a little anachronistic?"
"The wheel's one of the longest surviving inventions, angel. At least pretend to have a sense of tradition."
"Do you know, I don't want a drink half so much as I did."
The other one looked around the bar; not a man jack of 'em wasn't focused on their drink as he held a hand out to Blondie.
"Come on," he said, smile lop-sided and moving towards sad, "I'll drive us back to London."
They walked out of the bar together into the sunset, the dark one with a little swagger like he knew it was still the biggest damn cliché this side of Earth-that-was, and no power in the gorram 'verse was gonna stop him.