Fic: Kore (Firefly/Supernatural; River Tam/Dean Winchester)
I blame the insomnia.
Kore
Firefly/Supernatural; River Tam/Dean Winchester; adult; 2,745 words
River has a need, and Dean is happy to fulfill it.
For luzdeestrellas. Sorry I couldn't work the knives in. Thanks to mousapelli for looking it over.
~*~
Kore
River has discovered the one thing Simon won't--can't, he says, as if that has ever been part of their vocabulary, can't, weak word for weak people--do for her, and she finds as time passes and she puts herself back together again, that she wants, needs it, desire simmering under her skin like lightning ready to strike at any moment, thunder beating in her blood, between her thighs. He thinks she can't feel him with Kaylee, all breathless want and slick heat and Simon, Simon, Simon like the beat of a drum.
She doesn't hate Kaylee for having what she wants, knows she has more of Simon than Kaylee ever will, but she won't ask again for what Simon won't give.
They are on Persephone when she slips away from Serenity, quiet feet in combat boots and skin tingling from being scrubbed clean with jasmine-scented soap borrowed from Inara. She doesn't question the knowledge that tonight is her best chance, that Simon is tied up in repairing Jayne, Kaylee is tied up in repairing Serenity, and for months, Mal and Zoe have done nothing but try to repair one another in ways that never quite work. Inara has a roster of clients--her way of trying to fix the damage she and Mal have done to each other--and won't be back for two days.
River's the only one close to whole right now, and she slips into the iris-colored twilight in her iris-colored dress and fades away.
*
The club is smoky, dark, full of men who let their gazes roam over her freely, uncowed for once by Mal or Jayne or Zoe, unable to see the weapon beneath the pretty girl skin she wears, or the gun strapped beneath her dress, the knife in her boot. There is music, loud and fast, the pounding beat echoing the pulse of her heart, the ache between her thighs. She spins and twirls and dips, carried by it beyond herself, growing large as the 'verse when she dances, crowd noise in her head drowned out by the clamor of her own rushing blood.
She dances and they watch, the ones who aren't dancing themselves in the press of sweaty young bodies, limbs loose with alcohol and lust. They watch and she listens, finds him, like Simon but not Simon, feels him on the outside of her skin and flowing in her veins. He's leaning against the bar, drinking, and she can feel it when he finds her in the crowd, the appreciation in his glance sparks against her skin like a match on dry grass.
She tosses her hair over her shoulder, walks over and takes the glass from his hand, tips it against her lips and drains it, whiskey burning a path down her throat. A night for firsts, she thinks, putting the glass on the bar behind him so she can touch her fingers to his face, tracing pale freckles scattered over his skin like stars in the black. She is bold because all the women she loves are bold, and all the men she loves appreciate it.
"Hey," he says, grinning. He is as handsome as Simon, in a different way, green eyes fringed with long dark lashes and full lips that are moist with whiskey. She runs her thumb over his lower lip; he reaches up to catch her wrist and she lets him, liking the feel of long callused fingers circling her bones, loose and easy. She catches a glimpse of confused feelings--attraction, amusement, and wariness beneath it all.
"Hey," she answers, swaying towards him in time with the music, yearning.
He opens his mouth again, and she rises up on her tiptoes. "Don't," she whispers against his lips, and kisses him. She's never done it before, but she thinks she's doing it right, closing her eyes at the taste of whiskey and heat, his tongue slick-rough against hers like fine velvet. She feels need singing in her veins, presses closer, wanting to sink into him. His hand comes up to tangle in her hair, cup the back of her head gently.
When he breaks the kiss, she is ringing like cathedral bells and she knows he can feel it, too. He is easy, lets the doubts slip away as he kisses her again, wet heat and skill meeting her hungry desperation until she is nearly wrapped around him, begging for more.
"Come on," he says, voice rough though his hands are gentle. He leads her out into the night air, cool against her skin after the humid press of the bar, and drapes his leather jacket over her shoulders, and then his arm to keep it there. It smells of smoke and engine grease and weariness he hides from everyone. She leans against him, lets him guide her, casting the net of her awareness out but there's no danger here, only the danger she's sought. He presses his lips to her temple, his nose to her hair, and it's easy to match her steps to his, just another kind of rhythm.
The room he takes her to isn't home, but it is as far as he will let her in, and for now, from him, she will greedily take what he's willing give her, and come back for more.
She steps over the threshold, the line of salt unbroken, and knows he's waiting for her to ask, but she doesn't. When she closes her eyes she can see him shining like a beacon--he shines and she rings with it, a tuning fork struck upon a star. She'd read the phrase once, in her twentieth century novelist phase, and scoffed, but now she knows the truth of it.
"You keep the darkness away," she tells him as she unbuttons his shirt and pushes it off his shoulders, pressing kisses to his chest, listening to the beat of his heart. "You shine like the stars in the black, but you hide your light."
He stops, startled, and she can feel the wariness well up in him, the rapid-fire volley of thoughts in his brain, the assessment of her threat, and his complete confidence in his ability to respond. When her fingers start to tremble against his belly, he covers them with his hand, decision made.
"Usually I'm the one doing the sweet-talking," he says with a half-grin, and sits down on the end of the bed. "Do I get to know your name?"
She could lie, and he would know, and it would change everything, though it wouldn't look like anything had changed at all. Or she could tell the truth and let him vibrate through her like an earthquake, bells ringing and lights flaring, remaking her.
"River," she says.
"River," he repeats, naming her. She steps out of her boots and slips off her dress, lets it slither down her body and pool on the floor, a patch of twilight in the night. He looks her over slowly, drinking her in like a glass of water. She knows she's pretty, no shame in it, and the enjoyment he gets from looking at her makes the pulse between her thighs beat insistently, wet and hot and demanding. "I'm Dean." He holds out a hand and she takes it, giggling as he pulls her down into his lap and helps her unbuckle the gun from her thigh. He doesn't seem surprised to see it, and doesn't flinch when she takes the one from his waistband and lays it on the bed beside them.
"Dean," she says against his mouth, running her hands through the soft, short hair on the back of his head, and again, "Dean," when she presses kisses to his jaw, enjoying the rough scrub of stubble against her lips, her skin. His hands are warm and firm on her back, sliding over skin and bone as he lowers his head to lick and kiss her breasts.
"Oh," she gasps when he takes one peaked nipple into his mouth and sucks. "Oh, Dean." She squirms in his lap, trying to get closer, frustrated by her underwear and his jeans.
He laughs against her skin and it rings through her. She feels like she's going to melt, and she doesn't mind at all, because he's holding her together, making sure she keeps her shape.
"One and one is two, but two become one," she says, babbling, nervous, unbuttoning his jeans. "And he made them, man and woman, and they shall be one flesh."
He covers her hands with his. "Are you okay?"
"I don't know how to do this," she admits breathlessly. "They made me a weapon, and I'm learning to be a girl again, and I don't know how to do this."
"Shh," he says. "Shh." He cradles her against his chest, anchors her to him with a hand in her hair and another on the small of her back, rubbing small circles there that he means as comfort but which just stoke her higher.
"I chose you," she tells him, forehead pressed to his shoulder, lips millimeters from his skin. "Simon won't--can't, he says, but that doesn't mean anything, can't," she says it scornfully, "so I chose you."
"Who is Simon?" he asks.
"Gē ge. I have Simon, like Sam has you."
He tenses beneath her, muscles coiled and ready to spring, but he doesn't push her off his lap. He laughs instead, gust of warm breath making her hair flutter and tickle her skin, a sound of disbelief. "River, xin gan, I--"
She looks up, takes his face between her hands. "Don't say can't, Dean. Please." His eyes are wide and green in the darkness, and she says, "I chose you," again, holding his gaze, willing him to understand.
"Yeah, I'm getting that. I--Oh, hell." He kisses her softly, and she can feel the hesitation in him, shifts her hips to encourage him. He groans into her mouth.
"I'm sure," she says when she pulls away.
"I didn't ask."
"You were going to."
He shakes his head. "You--"
"I can't help it. You're loud." She rubs her index finger over his forehead, smoothing out the furrow between his brows. "You hide your secrets and shout everything else over them, and that's all I can hear."
He laughs again, amusement this time, and desire. "Okay. Okay. If you're sure--"
"I am."
"Then shut up and kiss me."
She does, cupping his face, mouth smiling, open, and eager over his, pressing him back against the pillows. He slips his hands beneath the elastic of her underwear, and she wriggles out of them, kicking them off her ankle onto the floor. He cups her bottom, then slides one hand around to run his fingers over the slick folds of her quim. She clings to him, trembling, heat and need flaring through her.
She knows the biology of it, knows the feel of her own flesh under her fingers, but that hasn't prepared her for this, the blunt tips of his fingers stroking and rubbing the places that make her feel good. She arches like a cat, makes soft choking sounds because she can't get enough air to speak. He rolls them over, croons softly in her ear as he touches her, gentle, as if she's made of glass, and when his thumb circles over her clitoris, she shatters, wave after wave of pleasure pulsing through her.
He holds her through it, and while she's still ringing softly with the echoes, he shoves his jeans off and rolls on a condom. She hasn't thought about that, can barely think at all now, random snatches of mathematical theory dancing in her head with scraps of mythology, his kisses like the seeds of pomegranates on her tongue, all practical concerns drowned in heat and need.
"River?" he asks, and she answers, "Yes," and opens to him.
He enters her slowly, holding himself up on his elbows; he tells her she's beautiful and perfect and River, marvels at how wet and ready she is for him, how tightly she surrounds him, and how good she feels. He talks her through the twinge of pain and the oddness of intimacy, his voice a steady murmur in her ear. She shifts beneath him, adjusting, and he says, "Okay?" She nods, and he kisses her forehead, the tip of her nose.
When he begins moving again, faster now, she wraps her legs around him, snapping her hips up to meet his, pressure building in her again as the strangeness fades. They flow together, two bodies made one flesh, and now she understands--she is never alone in her head, but now she is not-alone with Dean, and Dean is not-alone with her, and when he reaches between them to touch her again, she can feel his pleasure, his sheer joy in this physical act, magnifying her own. He shudders against her as he comes, and she holds him close, desperately straining for that same release. They're dancing, flying, shedding their skins together, sound and light exploding out like the big bang, and when she comes, she's a new creation.
He lowers himself next to her gently, and she holds him close, stroking his sweaty hair, his damp skin, delighted at the play of muscle, skin and bone, the perfection of him, the small sprays of freckles scattered across his body like constellations she would like to map in the short space of time they have together.
"You okay?" he asks, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.
"Shiny," she answers with a smile that feels like it's never going to leave her face.
"That's what I like to hear." He takes a deep breath, and she stills, waiting to see what he will do next. "I don't normally do the cuddling thing," he says even as he spoons himself around her. "But for you, I'll make an exception. Your first time and all."
She giggles, and for once she feels like an eighteen-year-old girl instead of a problem, an albatross, an annoying little sister. "I can't stay long."
He nods and drops a kiss on her hair. "Simon will come looking, right? Am I going to find myself on the wrong end of his shotgun?"
"Not his. Zoe's, maybe, or the captain's."
"But it's definitely shotgun time, right?" She nods, and he smiles, no hard feelings. "Love 'em and leave 'em, huh?"
"That's the plan."
"It works for me."
"I noticed."
They dress in comfortable silence, and she takes note of the soreness between her legs, the lethargy in her body, the momentary freedom from the hum of desire that's been living under her skin for weeks. She knows it will come back, and she knows it will have to be dealt with when it does. She can only hope that next time goes as well as this time has.
She kisses him softly. "Thank you, Dean."
He grins. "Anytime, sweetheart." The grin fades and he says, "If you ever need me--"
She touches his cheek. "I'll find you."
"It's Winchester. Like the rifle," he says as she's opening the door. "Dean Winchester."
She smiles. "I know."
*
They're in the process of arming to come after her when she arrives back on Serenity.
Simon rushes to her, brushes her hair back from her face, concerned, and she is suddenly aware that she has red marks on her skin, that she smells of Dean and sex and sweat.
"I'm all right," she announces. "I just needed to... I needed to be away."
"This going to be a habit, little albatross?"
"That depends on--" She almost says, Simon, but stops. "It depends."
The captain says, "I see," but she can tell by the way he folds his arms across his chest that he doesn't, or doesn't want to. "You see fit to let us know next time, dong ma?"
She nods. "Yes, sir." As she heads toward her room, she hears him say, "Well, don't you all got work to be doing?"
Simon follows her, of course. "Are you really okay?"
"I am, I promise." Better than okay, but she's not going to tell him that. She leans up, kisses his cheek. "I just want to sleep now."
He gives her a long appraising look before he nods and leaves her. She hears him going not to his room next door, but off to Kaylee's bunk.
River curls up with her pillow and thinks of Dean instead.
end
***
Notes: "A tuning fork struck upon a star" is a paraphrase from F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby. Cut-tag text from "Diary (On the Banks)" by Rachel Zucker.
*
8/20/06
~*~
Feedback is worshipped.
*
Kore
Firefly/Supernatural; River Tam/Dean Winchester; adult; 2,745 words
River has a need, and Dean is happy to fulfill it.
For luzdeestrellas. Sorry I couldn't work the knives in. Thanks to mousapelli for looking it over.
~*~
Kore
River has discovered the one thing Simon won't--can't, he says, as if that has ever been part of their vocabulary, can't, weak word for weak people--do for her, and she finds as time passes and she puts herself back together again, that she wants, needs it, desire simmering under her skin like lightning ready to strike at any moment, thunder beating in her blood, between her thighs. He thinks she can't feel him with Kaylee, all breathless want and slick heat and Simon, Simon, Simon like the beat of a drum.
She doesn't hate Kaylee for having what she wants, knows she has more of Simon than Kaylee ever will, but she won't ask again for what Simon won't give.
They are on Persephone when she slips away from Serenity, quiet feet in combat boots and skin tingling from being scrubbed clean with jasmine-scented soap borrowed from Inara. She doesn't question the knowledge that tonight is her best chance, that Simon is tied up in repairing Jayne, Kaylee is tied up in repairing Serenity, and for months, Mal and Zoe have done nothing but try to repair one another in ways that never quite work. Inara has a roster of clients--her way of trying to fix the damage she and Mal have done to each other--and won't be back for two days.
River's the only one close to whole right now, and she slips into the iris-colored twilight in her iris-colored dress and fades away.
*
The club is smoky, dark, full of men who let their gazes roam over her freely, uncowed for once by Mal or Jayne or Zoe, unable to see the weapon beneath the pretty girl skin she wears, or the gun strapped beneath her dress, the knife in her boot. There is music, loud and fast, the pounding beat echoing the pulse of her heart, the ache between her thighs. She spins and twirls and dips, carried by it beyond herself, growing large as the 'verse when she dances, crowd noise in her head drowned out by the clamor of her own rushing blood.
She dances and they watch, the ones who aren't dancing themselves in the press of sweaty young bodies, limbs loose with alcohol and lust. They watch and she listens, finds him, like Simon but not Simon, feels him on the outside of her skin and flowing in her veins. He's leaning against the bar, drinking, and she can feel it when he finds her in the crowd, the appreciation in his glance sparks against her skin like a match on dry grass.
She tosses her hair over her shoulder, walks over and takes the glass from his hand, tips it against her lips and drains it, whiskey burning a path down her throat. A night for firsts, she thinks, putting the glass on the bar behind him so she can touch her fingers to his face, tracing pale freckles scattered over his skin like stars in the black. She is bold because all the women she loves are bold, and all the men she loves appreciate it.
"Hey," he says, grinning. He is as handsome as Simon, in a different way, green eyes fringed with long dark lashes and full lips that are moist with whiskey. She runs her thumb over his lower lip; he reaches up to catch her wrist and she lets him, liking the feel of long callused fingers circling her bones, loose and easy. She catches a glimpse of confused feelings--attraction, amusement, and wariness beneath it all.
"Hey," she answers, swaying towards him in time with the music, yearning.
He opens his mouth again, and she rises up on her tiptoes. "Don't," she whispers against his lips, and kisses him. She's never done it before, but she thinks she's doing it right, closing her eyes at the taste of whiskey and heat, his tongue slick-rough against hers like fine velvet. She feels need singing in her veins, presses closer, wanting to sink into him. His hand comes up to tangle in her hair, cup the back of her head gently.
When he breaks the kiss, she is ringing like cathedral bells and she knows he can feel it, too. He is easy, lets the doubts slip away as he kisses her again, wet heat and skill meeting her hungry desperation until she is nearly wrapped around him, begging for more.
"Come on," he says, voice rough though his hands are gentle. He leads her out into the night air, cool against her skin after the humid press of the bar, and drapes his leather jacket over her shoulders, and then his arm to keep it there. It smells of smoke and engine grease and weariness he hides from everyone. She leans against him, lets him guide her, casting the net of her awareness out but there's no danger here, only the danger she's sought. He presses his lips to her temple, his nose to her hair, and it's easy to match her steps to his, just another kind of rhythm.
The room he takes her to isn't home, but it is as far as he will let her in, and for now, from him, she will greedily take what he's willing give her, and come back for more.
She steps over the threshold, the line of salt unbroken, and knows he's waiting for her to ask, but she doesn't. When she closes her eyes she can see him shining like a beacon--he shines and she rings with it, a tuning fork struck upon a star. She'd read the phrase once, in her twentieth century novelist phase, and scoffed, but now she knows the truth of it.
"You keep the darkness away," she tells him as she unbuttons his shirt and pushes it off his shoulders, pressing kisses to his chest, listening to the beat of his heart. "You shine like the stars in the black, but you hide your light."
He stops, startled, and she can feel the wariness well up in him, the rapid-fire volley of thoughts in his brain, the assessment of her threat, and his complete confidence in his ability to respond. When her fingers start to tremble against his belly, he covers them with his hand, decision made.
"Usually I'm the one doing the sweet-talking," he says with a half-grin, and sits down on the end of the bed. "Do I get to know your name?"
She could lie, and he would know, and it would change everything, though it wouldn't look like anything had changed at all. Or she could tell the truth and let him vibrate through her like an earthquake, bells ringing and lights flaring, remaking her.
"River," she says.
"River," he repeats, naming her. She steps out of her boots and slips off her dress, lets it slither down her body and pool on the floor, a patch of twilight in the night. He looks her over slowly, drinking her in like a glass of water. She knows she's pretty, no shame in it, and the enjoyment he gets from looking at her makes the pulse between her thighs beat insistently, wet and hot and demanding. "I'm Dean." He holds out a hand and she takes it, giggling as he pulls her down into his lap and helps her unbuckle the gun from her thigh. He doesn't seem surprised to see it, and doesn't flinch when she takes the one from his waistband and lays it on the bed beside them.
"Dean," she says against his mouth, running her hands through the soft, short hair on the back of his head, and again, "Dean," when she presses kisses to his jaw, enjoying the rough scrub of stubble against her lips, her skin. His hands are warm and firm on her back, sliding over skin and bone as he lowers his head to lick and kiss her breasts.
"Oh," she gasps when he takes one peaked nipple into his mouth and sucks. "Oh, Dean." She squirms in his lap, trying to get closer, frustrated by her underwear and his jeans.
He laughs against her skin and it rings through her. She feels like she's going to melt, and she doesn't mind at all, because he's holding her together, making sure she keeps her shape.
"One and one is two, but two become one," she says, babbling, nervous, unbuttoning his jeans. "And he made them, man and woman, and they shall be one flesh."
He covers her hands with his. "Are you okay?"
"I don't know how to do this," she admits breathlessly. "They made me a weapon, and I'm learning to be a girl again, and I don't know how to do this."
"Shh," he says. "Shh." He cradles her against his chest, anchors her to him with a hand in her hair and another on the small of her back, rubbing small circles there that he means as comfort but which just stoke her higher.
"I chose you," she tells him, forehead pressed to his shoulder, lips millimeters from his skin. "Simon won't--can't, he says, but that doesn't mean anything, can't," she says it scornfully, "so I chose you."
"Who is Simon?" he asks.
"Gē ge. I have Simon, like Sam has you."
He tenses beneath her, muscles coiled and ready to spring, but he doesn't push her off his lap. He laughs instead, gust of warm breath making her hair flutter and tickle her skin, a sound of disbelief. "River, xin gan, I--"
She looks up, takes his face between her hands. "Don't say can't, Dean. Please." His eyes are wide and green in the darkness, and she says, "I chose you," again, holding his gaze, willing him to understand.
"Yeah, I'm getting that. I--Oh, hell." He kisses her softly, and she can feel the hesitation in him, shifts her hips to encourage him. He groans into her mouth.
"I'm sure," she says when she pulls away.
"I didn't ask."
"You were going to."
He shakes his head. "You--"
"I can't help it. You're loud." She rubs her index finger over his forehead, smoothing out the furrow between his brows. "You hide your secrets and shout everything else over them, and that's all I can hear."
He laughs again, amusement this time, and desire. "Okay. Okay. If you're sure--"
"I am."
"Then shut up and kiss me."
She does, cupping his face, mouth smiling, open, and eager over his, pressing him back against the pillows. He slips his hands beneath the elastic of her underwear, and she wriggles out of them, kicking them off her ankle onto the floor. He cups her bottom, then slides one hand around to run his fingers over the slick folds of her quim. She clings to him, trembling, heat and need flaring through her.
She knows the biology of it, knows the feel of her own flesh under her fingers, but that hasn't prepared her for this, the blunt tips of his fingers stroking and rubbing the places that make her feel good. She arches like a cat, makes soft choking sounds because she can't get enough air to speak. He rolls them over, croons softly in her ear as he touches her, gentle, as if she's made of glass, and when his thumb circles over her clitoris, she shatters, wave after wave of pleasure pulsing through her.
He holds her through it, and while she's still ringing softly with the echoes, he shoves his jeans off and rolls on a condom. She hasn't thought about that, can barely think at all now, random snatches of mathematical theory dancing in her head with scraps of mythology, his kisses like the seeds of pomegranates on her tongue, all practical concerns drowned in heat and need.
"River?" he asks, and she answers, "Yes," and opens to him.
He enters her slowly, holding himself up on his elbows; he tells her she's beautiful and perfect and River, marvels at how wet and ready she is for him, how tightly she surrounds him, and how good she feels. He talks her through the twinge of pain and the oddness of intimacy, his voice a steady murmur in her ear. She shifts beneath him, adjusting, and he says, "Okay?" She nods, and he kisses her forehead, the tip of her nose.
When he begins moving again, faster now, she wraps her legs around him, snapping her hips up to meet his, pressure building in her again as the strangeness fades. They flow together, two bodies made one flesh, and now she understands--she is never alone in her head, but now she is not-alone with Dean, and Dean is not-alone with her, and when he reaches between them to touch her again, she can feel his pleasure, his sheer joy in this physical act, magnifying her own. He shudders against her as he comes, and she holds him close, desperately straining for that same release. They're dancing, flying, shedding their skins together, sound and light exploding out like the big bang, and when she comes, she's a new creation.
He lowers himself next to her gently, and she holds him close, stroking his sweaty hair, his damp skin, delighted at the play of muscle, skin and bone, the perfection of him, the small sprays of freckles scattered across his body like constellations she would like to map in the short space of time they have together.
"You okay?" he asks, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.
"Shiny," she answers with a smile that feels like it's never going to leave her face.
"That's what I like to hear." He takes a deep breath, and she stills, waiting to see what he will do next. "I don't normally do the cuddling thing," he says even as he spoons himself around her. "But for you, I'll make an exception. Your first time and all."
She giggles, and for once she feels like an eighteen-year-old girl instead of a problem, an albatross, an annoying little sister. "I can't stay long."
He nods and drops a kiss on her hair. "Simon will come looking, right? Am I going to find myself on the wrong end of his shotgun?"
"Not his. Zoe's, maybe, or the captain's."
"But it's definitely shotgun time, right?" She nods, and he smiles, no hard feelings. "Love 'em and leave 'em, huh?"
"That's the plan."
"It works for me."
"I noticed."
They dress in comfortable silence, and she takes note of the soreness between her legs, the lethargy in her body, the momentary freedom from the hum of desire that's been living under her skin for weeks. She knows it will come back, and she knows it will have to be dealt with when it does. She can only hope that next time goes as well as this time has.
She kisses him softly. "Thank you, Dean."
He grins. "Anytime, sweetheart." The grin fades and he says, "If you ever need me--"
She touches his cheek. "I'll find you."
"It's Winchester. Like the rifle," he says as she's opening the door. "Dean Winchester."
She smiles. "I know."
*
They're in the process of arming to come after her when she arrives back on Serenity.
Simon rushes to her, brushes her hair back from her face, concerned, and she is suddenly aware that she has red marks on her skin, that she smells of Dean and sex and sweat.
"I'm all right," she announces. "I just needed to... I needed to be away."
"This going to be a habit, little albatross?"
"That depends on--" She almost says, Simon, but stops. "It depends."
The captain says, "I see," but she can tell by the way he folds his arms across his chest that he doesn't, or doesn't want to. "You see fit to let us know next time, dong ma?"
She nods. "Yes, sir." As she heads toward her room, she hears him say, "Well, don't you all got work to be doing?"
Simon follows her, of course. "Are you really okay?"
"I am, I promise." Better than okay, but she's not going to tell him that. She leans up, kisses his cheek. "I just want to sleep now."
He gives her a long appraising look before he nods and leaves her. She hears him going not to his room next door, but off to Kaylee's bunk.
River curls up with her pillow and thinks of Dean instead.
end
***
Notes: "A tuning fork struck upon a star" is a paraphrase from F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby. Cut-tag text from "Diary (On the Banks)" by Rachel Zucker.
*
8/20/06
~*~
Feedback is worshipped.
*