Fic: Holy Night (Firefly; Mal & Zoe)
Title: Holy Night
Author: victoria p. [victoria @ unfitforsociety.net]
Summary: Zoe's not sure what she has anymore.
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Joss's, baby.
Notes: Thanks to amberlynne, kassrachel, and mulberry_fields for looking it over. Written for the Firefly-West Wing Title Challenge
Word count: 950 words
Date: July 5, 2006
~*~
Holy Night
Mal ain't slept the sleep of the just in years. Spends most nights wakeful and worrying about his ship, his crew, sleeping in fits and starts when exhaustion catches up with him in the hours just before dawn, or what passes for it in the black. He ain't slept much at all in the weeks since Miranda--too many dreams of folks who'd laid down to die, and nightmares of them as hadn't.
He knows he did the right thing, putting that broadwave out there so everyone might know the truth (some part of him still believes the truth will set him free, in spite of all evidence to the contrary), but every minute he ain't busy doing something else, he's wondering if the right thing was worth the price they paid. Sure, Serenity's in the best shape she's been since he's had her--probably the best shape she's been in since she rolled off the assembly line all those years ago--but it's going to take more than a quick patch job and some shiny new parts to get his crew whole again.
And that makes him sit up, shove his feet into his boots, and take to walking the night-quiet corridors. He feels the hum of Serenity's engines pulse in his veins like blood, hands trailing lightly over metal walls, keeping track of what needs doing in the morning, matching funds to parts and chores to crewmembers and possibilities of work with the contacts they got left.
He's lulled himself almost to peace with his walking, heavy-eyed and ready to sleep, when he arrives at the dining area to find Zoe sitting alone at the table. She's still as a statue, tin cup sitting between her curled hands, bottle of fēng xiāng at her elbow. While the rest of them had indulged as soon as they were all relatively upright again, both in memory of the dead and in celebration of still being alive, she hadn't joined in; had sat instead with a mug of green tea cradled in her hands, face softened by the steam, all her energy turned inward in mourning.
She looks up at him now, eyes dark and hollow, and his hard-won peace flees before her sorrow.
"You ought not to be drinking alone," he says roughly, going to the cabinet and getting his own cup out, then sitting down next to her at the table.
"No reason not to, sir," she answers as he tips some liquor into his cup.
Something in her tone makes him swallow what he's going to say and instead think on reasons why she wouldn't. He does some quick counting in his head while he takes a drink, closes his eyes, and lets the fēng xiāng burn its way down his throat, smooth and rough at the same time.
"Oh." He can barely force the word out past the ache in his chest for something he ain't ever thought about before, hadn't even known she'd wanted. A possibility lost forever now. He tells himself it's just the liquor, but he knows it for a lie. He don't know how she stands it.
If she were Kaylee, or even River, he'd reach over, pull her into a hug, let her cry against his chest. With Zoe, the most he can do is put a hand on her arm and hope she ain't of a mind to separate him from it. Her breath hitches, and he wonders if she's going to break after all from this final loss. He wonders who'll put them both back together if she does.
After a moment as endless as the black, and infinitely more dangerous, she reaches over and wraps her cold fingers round his, squeezing tight. He can't decide if she's pulling the trigger or hanging on for dear life, and it occurs to him that for them, there ain't as much difference between the two as others might think.
Her breath hitches again, sound of tears being held back by sheer force of will, and he swallows hard. He ain't ever seen her cry, and he don't know if she'll ever forgive him if he sees her now, but even if he could break free of her hold on him, he wouldn't.
"Zoe?"
"Just ain't sure what I got anymore, sir."
She's a soldier in an army don't exist, and wife to a good man dead before his time. And what she has now is him, same as always. Can't say it, though--not 'cause he don't want to, or thinks it's unmanly (though she'd probably laugh at him if he did, which might not be a bad thing), but mostly 'cause he can't get the words out right. His knack for speechifying has picked a gorram bad time to desert him. So he just says, "Zoe," again, and returns the pressure of her fingers with his own.
She finally turns to face him, and her eyes are warm now, and bright, dark and shining like the black, deep enough for a man to drown in and praise God for the slow death. Her mouth curves in a small smile, genuine and sad, but not bitter.
"You got us," he says, finding the words now that he don't need 'em. "Kaylee and River, Simon and Inara, even Jayne. You got Serenity, Zoe, and you got me. You always got me." 'Til death do us part, he thinks, though that's something he'll never say, 'cause it ain't his place. But they traded wordless vows a long time ago, and he ain't looking to ever break them.
"Aye, Cap'n," she says softly. She raises her mug, and he raises his, and they drink, trading promises all over again.
end
***
Feedback is adored.
***
Author: victoria p. [victoria @ unfitforsociety.net]
Summary: Zoe's not sure what she has anymore.
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Joss's, baby.
Notes: Thanks to amberlynne, kassrachel, and mulberry_fields for looking it over. Written for the Firefly-West Wing Title Challenge
Word count: 950 words
Date: July 5, 2006
~*~
Holy Night
Mal ain't slept the sleep of the just in years. Spends most nights wakeful and worrying about his ship, his crew, sleeping in fits and starts when exhaustion catches up with him in the hours just before dawn, or what passes for it in the black. He ain't slept much at all in the weeks since Miranda--too many dreams of folks who'd laid down to die, and nightmares of them as hadn't.
He knows he did the right thing, putting that broadwave out there so everyone might know the truth (some part of him still believes the truth will set him free, in spite of all evidence to the contrary), but every minute he ain't busy doing something else, he's wondering if the right thing was worth the price they paid. Sure, Serenity's in the best shape she's been since he's had her--probably the best shape she's been in since she rolled off the assembly line all those years ago--but it's going to take more than a quick patch job and some shiny new parts to get his crew whole again.
And that makes him sit up, shove his feet into his boots, and take to walking the night-quiet corridors. He feels the hum of Serenity's engines pulse in his veins like blood, hands trailing lightly over metal walls, keeping track of what needs doing in the morning, matching funds to parts and chores to crewmembers and possibilities of work with the contacts they got left.
He's lulled himself almost to peace with his walking, heavy-eyed and ready to sleep, when he arrives at the dining area to find Zoe sitting alone at the table. She's still as a statue, tin cup sitting between her curled hands, bottle of fēng xiāng at her elbow. While the rest of them had indulged as soon as they were all relatively upright again, both in memory of the dead and in celebration of still being alive, she hadn't joined in; had sat instead with a mug of green tea cradled in her hands, face softened by the steam, all her energy turned inward in mourning.
She looks up at him now, eyes dark and hollow, and his hard-won peace flees before her sorrow.
"You ought not to be drinking alone," he says roughly, going to the cabinet and getting his own cup out, then sitting down next to her at the table.
"No reason not to, sir," she answers as he tips some liquor into his cup.
Something in her tone makes him swallow what he's going to say and instead think on reasons why she wouldn't. He does some quick counting in his head while he takes a drink, closes his eyes, and lets the fēng xiāng burn its way down his throat, smooth and rough at the same time.
"Oh." He can barely force the word out past the ache in his chest for something he ain't ever thought about before, hadn't even known she'd wanted. A possibility lost forever now. He tells himself it's just the liquor, but he knows it for a lie. He don't know how she stands it.
If she were Kaylee, or even River, he'd reach over, pull her into a hug, let her cry against his chest. With Zoe, the most he can do is put a hand on her arm and hope she ain't of a mind to separate him from it. Her breath hitches, and he wonders if she's going to break after all from this final loss. He wonders who'll put them both back together if she does.
After a moment as endless as the black, and infinitely more dangerous, she reaches over and wraps her cold fingers round his, squeezing tight. He can't decide if she's pulling the trigger or hanging on for dear life, and it occurs to him that for them, there ain't as much difference between the two as others might think.
Her breath hitches again, sound of tears being held back by sheer force of will, and he swallows hard. He ain't ever seen her cry, and he don't know if she'll ever forgive him if he sees her now, but even if he could break free of her hold on him, he wouldn't.
"Zoe?"
"Just ain't sure what I got anymore, sir."
She's a soldier in an army don't exist, and wife to a good man dead before his time. And what she has now is him, same as always. Can't say it, though--not 'cause he don't want to, or thinks it's unmanly (though she'd probably laugh at him if he did, which might not be a bad thing), but mostly 'cause he can't get the words out right. His knack for speechifying has picked a gorram bad time to desert him. So he just says, "Zoe," again, and returns the pressure of her fingers with his own.
She finally turns to face him, and her eyes are warm now, and bright, dark and shining like the black, deep enough for a man to drown in and praise God for the slow death. Her mouth curves in a small smile, genuine and sad, but not bitter.
"You got us," he says, finding the words now that he don't need 'em. "Kaylee and River, Simon and Inara, even Jayne. You got Serenity, Zoe, and you got me. You always got me." 'Til death do us part, he thinks, though that's something he'll never say, 'cause it ain't his place. But they traded wordless vows a long time ago, and he ain't looking to ever break them.
"Aye, Cap'n," she says softly. She raises her mug, and he raises his, and they drink, trading promises all over again.
end
***
Feedback is adored.
***