fic: The Girl Who Says Remember (Firefly/Friday Night Lights; Mal/Tyra)
The Girl Who Says Remember
Firefly/Friday Night Lights; Mal/Tyra; adult; 1,715 words
Tyra had been a towheaded little tagalong with a sassy mouth and a nose for trouble. Given the circumstances, it looked like that much hadn't changed.
All luzdeestrellas's fault, as things usually are these days.
~*~
The Girl Who Says Remember
The job didn't go smooth. The job didn't ever go smooth, so why should this time be any different? Mal thought as he stared up the barrel of the shotgun at a gap-toothed hundan who looked like he was having way too much fun. Hell, this weren't even really a job, just a meet-up in the hopes of one, easy as pie, he'd thought, contact of Monty's: They want to meet you alone, but there's no need to worry. We're all friends here. I vouched for you and I'll vouch for them. Monty had a real strange definition of friends these days.
Zoe wouldn't come looking for him for another couple hours at least, unless River had herself one of her inklings that things had gone pear-shaped, and while River was a deal more reliable now than before Miranda, she still had an odd kick in her gallop more often than not.
Another pair of boots came into sight to his left, and then a high, sweet voice that sounded vaguely familiar said, "Malcolm Reynolds, is that you?"
Mal let his gaze wander up and up and up, knee-high brown leather boots and then the khaki trousers of a veteran hugging long, shapely legs, brown stripe down the outside, white shirt, brown coat, long blonde hair, and a face that rang a bell he'd thought silenced years ago.
"Tyra? Little Tyra Collette?"
She laughed. "Not so little anymore." She tapped the gap-toothed sumbitch on the arm and said, "Let him up, Xing. He's an old friend."
*
"You're famous now, Mal, just like you always said you'd be."
"Well, maybe not just like," he said, draining the shot of whiskey and setting the glass back down on the table with a click. "Ain't exactly the kind of fame that brings a lifetime of joy and riches."
She laughed, mouth open wide and eyes crinkled shut, and tìan xiâo de, she'd grown up pretty. Mrs. Collette had worked as a cook on his momma's ranch for years, and Tyra'd been a towheaded little tagalong with a sassy mouth and a nose for trouble. Given the circumstances, it looked like that much hadn't changed.
"Maybe not, but you sure put it to the purple-bellies but good." She poured out another shot, knocked it back like a pro. Mal joined her; it was rude to let a lady drink alone, after all. "You know there's talk of another war brewing."
He stilled, but his mind was suddenly racing. "I'll allow I've heard rumors to that effect."
She leaned forward, took his hand in hers, long fingers with blunt-cut nails that only looked delicate. "You leading us, Mal, we could really do it this time. Throw off those Alliance wangbadan for good."
"This time? You ain't old enough to be wearing that coat from the first time, Tyra."
She shook her head. "You ain't the only one lied about your age to sign up, Mal. Me and Riggins and Street, even that Matt Saracen kid, you remember him?" All kids six or eight years younger than him, a vague blur of boyish rambunctiousness in Mal's mind, too young to be bothered with when he was sixteen, still too young to be soldiers when he'd left, but then, he'd been too young, too. Hadn't they all? "We all joined up soon as we turned sixteen." She bit her lip, looked away, squeezed his hand tighter. "Got off world just before..."
This time, he poured the whiskey.
*
"Yeah, Street made it. Lost his legs to a grizwald on Santo, but he's doing real good now, got himself a little farm on Greenleaf, and a little wife to go with it. That kid was always touched, you know? Turned niufen into gold damn near every time."
Mal took a sip of his drink, no need to do shots now that the first sting of memory had been blunted by the alcohol. "And you and Riggins? You had your eye on him even then, if I recall correctly."
"Survived the war, but--" She shook her head, didn't need to say no more. The peace hadn't been kind to anybody. "He always was a drinker."
The silence stretched, broken only by the sounds of her crew cleaning their guns in the back room and the whir of the ceiling fan overhead.
"Nice place you got here," he said finally. "You feel to do some business? I seem to recall there was a job to be had before your man Xing took a dislike to my face." She didn't answer, just looked at him over the rim of her glass, eyes wide and brown, mouth pink and slick with whiskey, all kissable and dangerous. He laughed, truth finally dawning, and nothing funny about it. "Ain't no job, is there?"
She shook her head. "Monty said you wouldn't come if you knew what we were asking. Said rumor of paid work is the only way to lure you these days." She splashed more whiskey into his glass. "Said you was a mercenary son of a bitch these days."
"Got a crew to feed, a ship to fuel. My days of fighting for the cause are long done."
"Right," she said, heavy drawl underlining her disbelief.
He stood, all the warmth from the whiskey gone, just the dizziness left. "I ain't no hero, Tyra. Never been one."
She stood, too, took one small step into his personal space, and reached up a hand to cup his cheek.
"Liar," she said, drawing him down into a kiss.
She tasted of whiskey and heat, and memories of sunny days full of dust and hope, the dim light of the hayloft and the sweet smell of new cut grass. Of a home long gone and irretrievable.
He pulled back, skittish as a maiden aunt. "Tyra, what--"
"I know you got a fancy Companion on board that ship of yours, and they say your first mate's a real stunner, too, so if you got a woman to be loyal to, I'll stop, but if not--"
He swallowed hard, brought up his hand to brush his thumb over the arch of her cheek, the bow of her mouth, lush and pink and slick from whiskey and kissing. "No," he said. "Got no vows of that nature binding me. But you're--Tyra, I remember you barefoot in pigtails, and missing your two front teeth."
"I'm not that little girl anymore, Mal. Ain't been for years. And I had my eye on you back then," she whispered against his mouth. "You were just too dumb to notice."
"You always were trouble."
"Looking for a different brand of trouble now," she answered, kissing him again, swallowing his groan of capitulation. "How long 'til your crew comes looking for you?"
"We got a couple hours," he managed as she yanked his shirt out of his waistband and slipped her hands up underneath.
She was a tall girl, and strong; he liked that, liked how straightforward she was, no mixed signals or inscrutable glances, no stealthy wiles like to trip a man up, just a woman who knew what she wanted and wasn't afraid of taking it. She kissed like she was firing a gun--quick, efficient, and deadly. She knew what she was about and wasn't shy about showing it.
She pushed him back down into his chair and climbed into his lap, all soft heat and callused fingers, slick tongue in his mouth and slick cunt round his cock, riding him hard, like it was a race she aimed to win. She arched and moaned, the ends of her hair brushing over his hands on her back, making him shiver. He slid a hand between them, slipping against silky wet skin to rub at her clit, make her clench around him like a fist and gasp into his mouth as she came.
She slowed but didn't stop, the heavy pulse of her climax pushing him to his, white lights behind his eyes like stars, and pleasure rushing through him like a full force gale.
They sat for a long moment, punctuated by the whir of the fan and the ragged gasp of their mingled breathing finally slowing towards regular again. She cleaned up quick, and he knew this was something the war had taught her, or maybe stolen afternoons in the hayloft with Riggins or Street--sometimes you could go hours on the ranch without seeing another soul, and sometimes you couldn't get away from people for a split second of solitude, and they'd all learned to step lively and take advantage of whatever stretch of private time came their way.
"Thank you," he said when he felt like the silence had gone from comfortable to awkward. "But I ain't who you want me to be, Tyra. Don't think I ever was."
She smiled, brushed a hand through his hair, and cupped his cheek again. "Sure you are. You've just forgotten how to be him. Call me when you remember."
He kissed her one last time. "This is goodbye, then," he said, and she shook her head, still firm in her false belief, and he couldn't take that from her.
*
Serenity was waiting when he got back to the dock. "You didn't think I maybe could have used some rescuing?" he said when he was back on board.
Zoe looked him over skeptically. "I ain't ever had a reason to doubt Monty's word, and River seemed to think you didn't want to be disturbed."
River, in the co-pilot's seat, plotting their next course, smiled over her shoulder at him. "He was laying old ghosts to rest, Zoe. Not our place to intrude." He flushed at the innuendo, and she laughed. Then, in one of those crazy mood swings they'd all grown used to, she turned solemn. "Can't outrun the past, Mal. Makes us who we are today," she said. "Your memory's better than you think."
He shook his head and settled into Wash's seat, hands steady on the stick, grounding him. "Can't outrun it," he agreed, "but can't live in it, either."
Her smile was tinged with sadness now. "When you've learned how to do that, remembering will be easier."
Mal had no answer for that. He focused instead on getting Serenity in the air.
end
*
the girl who in the middle of my life
wakes me and says remember
~ Bang, Octavio Paz
~*~
2/8/07
*
Title inspired by Bang by Octavio Paz, fortuitously posted this morning in breathe_poetry as I was writing this.
The age thing, well, if I'm already importing Tyra into the Flyverse, I figured messing with her age wasn't a big deal, right? *g*
~*~
Feedback would be awesome. I'd love to know if this worked.
~*~
Firefly/Friday Night Lights; Mal/Tyra; adult; 1,715 words
Tyra had been a towheaded little tagalong with a sassy mouth and a nose for trouble. Given the circumstances, it looked like that much hadn't changed.
All luzdeestrellas's fault, as things usually are these days.
~*~
The Girl Who Says Remember
The job didn't go smooth. The job didn't ever go smooth, so why should this time be any different? Mal thought as he stared up the barrel of the shotgun at a gap-toothed hundan who looked like he was having way too much fun. Hell, this weren't even really a job, just a meet-up in the hopes of one, easy as pie, he'd thought, contact of Monty's: They want to meet you alone, but there's no need to worry. We're all friends here. I vouched for you and I'll vouch for them. Monty had a real strange definition of friends these days.
Zoe wouldn't come looking for him for another couple hours at least, unless River had herself one of her inklings that things had gone pear-shaped, and while River was a deal more reliable now than before Miranda, she still had an odd kick in her gallop more often than not.
Another pair of boots came into sight to his left, and then a high, sweet voice that sounded vaguely familiar said, "Malcolm Reynolds, is that you?"
Mal let his gaze wander up and up and up, knee-high brown leather boots and then the khaki trousers of a veteran hugging long, shapely legs, brown stripe down the outside, white shirt, brown coat, long blonde hair, and a face that rang a bell he'd thought silenced years ago.
"Tyra? Little Tyra Collette?"
She laughed. "Not so little anymore." She tapped the gap-toothed sumbitch on the arm and said, "Let him up, Xing. He's an old friend."
*
"You're famous now, Mal, just like you always said you'd be."
"Well, maybe not just like," he said, draining the shot of whiskey and setting the glass back down on the table with a click. "Ain't exactly the kind of fame that brings a lifetime of joy and riches."
She laughed, mouth open wide and eyes crinkled shut, and tìan xiâo de, she'd grown up pretty. Mrs. Collette had worked as a cook on his momma's ranch for years, and Tyra'd been a towheaded little tagalong with a sassy mouth and a nose for trouble. Given the circumstances, it looked like that much hadn't changed.
"Maybe not, but you sure put it to the purple-bellies but good." She poured out another shot, knocked it back like a pro. Mal joined her; it was rude to let a lady drink alone, after all. "You know there's talk of another war brewing."
He stilled, but his mind was suddenly racing. "I'll allow I've heard rumors to that effect."
She leaned forward, took his hand in hers, long fingers with blunt-cut nails that only looked delicate. "You leading us, Mal, we could really do it this time. Throw off those Alliance wangbadan for good."
"This time? You ain't old enough to be wearing that coat from the first time, Tyra."
She shook her head. "You ain't the only one lied about your age to sign up, Mal. Me and Riggins and Street, even that Matt Saracen kid, you remember him?" All kids six or eight years younger than him, a vague blur of boyish rambunctiousness in Mal's mind, too young to be bothered with when he was sixteen, still too young to be soldiers when he'd left, but then, he'd been too young, too. Hadn't they all? "We all joined up soon as we turned sixteen." She bit her lip, looked away, squeezed his hand tighter. "Got off world just before..."
This time, he poured the whiskey.
*
"Yeah, Street made it. Lost his legs to a grizwald on Santo, but he's doing real good now, got himself a little farm on Greenleaf, and a little wife to go with it. That kid was always touched, you know? Turned niufen into gold damn near every time."
Mal took a sip of his drink, no need to do shots now that the first sting of memory had been blunted by the alcohol. "And you and Riggins? You had your eye on him even then, if I recall correctly."
"Survived the war, but--" She shook her head, didn't need to say no more. The peace hadn't been kind to anybody. "He always was a drinker."
The silence stretched, broken only by the sounds of her crew cleaning their guns in the back room and the whir of the ceiling fan overhead.
"Nice place you got here," he said finally. "You feel to do some business? I seem to recall there was a job to be had before your man Xing took a dislike to my face." She didn't answer, just looked at him over the rim of her glass, eyes wide and brown, mouth pink and slick with whiskey, all kissable and dangerous. He laughed, truth finally dawning, and nothing funny about it. "Ain't no job, is there?"
She shook her head. "Monty said you wouldn't come if you knew what we were asking. Said rumor of paid work is the only way to lure you these days." She splashed more whiskey into his glass. "Said you was a mercenary son of a bitch these days."
"Got a crew to feed, a ship to fuel. My days of fighting for the cause are long done."
"Right," she said, heavy drawl underlining her disbelief.
He stood, all the warmth from the whiskey gone, just the dizziness left. "I ain't no hero, Tyra. Never been one."
She stood, too, took one small step into his personal space, and reached up a hand to cup his cheek.
"Liar," she said, drawing him down into a kiss.
She tasted of whiskey and heat, and memories of sunny days full of dust and hope, the dim light of the hayloft and the sweet smell of new cut grass. Of a home long gone and irretrievable.
He pulled back, skittish as a maiden aunt. "Tyra, what--"
"I know you got a fancy Companion on board that ship of yours, and they say your first mate's a real stunner, too, so if you got a woman to be loyal to, I'll stop, but if not--"
He swallowed hard, brought up his hand to brush his thumb over the arch of her cheek, the bow of her mouth, lush and pink and slick from whiskey and kissing. "No," he said. "Got no vows of that nature binding me. But you're--Tyra, I remember you barefoot in pigtails, and missing your two front teeth."
"I'm not that little girl anymore, Mal. Ain't been for years. And I had my eye on you back then," she whispered against his mouth. "You were just too dumb to notice."
"You always were trouble."
"Looking for a different brand of trouble now," she answered, kissing him again, swallowing his groan of capitulation. "How long 'til your crew comes looking for you?"
"We got a couple hours," he managed as she yanked his shirt out of his waistband and slipped her hands up underneath.
She was a tall girl, and strong; he liked that, liked how straightforward she was, no mixed signals or inscrutable glances, no stealthy wiles like to trip a man up, just a woman who knew what she wanted and wasn't afraid of taking it. She kissed like she was firing a gun--quick, efficient, and deadly. She knew what she was about and wasn't shy about showing it.
She pushed him back down into his chair and climbed into his lap, all soft heat and callused fingers, slick tongue in his mouth and slick cunt round his cock, riding him hard, like it was a race she aimed to win. She arched and moaned, the ends of her hair brushing over his hands on her back, making him shiver. He slid a hand between them, slipping against silky wet skin to rub at her clit, make her clench around him like a fist and gasp into his mouth as she came.
She slowed but didn't stop, the heavy pulse of her climax pushing him to his, white lights behind his eyes like stars, and pleasure rushing through him like a full force gale.
They sat for a long moment, punctuated by the whir of the fan and the ragged gasp of their mingled breathing finally slowing towards regular again. She cleaned up quick, and he knew this was something the war had taught her, or maybe stolen afternoons in the hayloft with Riggins or Street--sometimes you could go hours on the ranch without seeing another soul, and sometimes you couldn't get away from people for a split second of solitude, and they'd all learned to step lively and take advantage of whatever stretch of private time came their way.
"Thank you," he said when he felt like the silence had gone from comfortable to awkward. "But I ain't who you want me to be, Tyra. Don't think I ever was."
She smiled, brushed a hand through his hair, and cupped his cheek again. "Sure you are. You've just forgotten how to be him. Call me when you remember."
He kissed her one last time. "This is goodbye, then," he said, and she shook her head, still firm in her false belief, and he couldn't take that from her.
*
Serenity was waiting when he got back to the dock. "You didn't think I maybe could have used some rescuing?" he said when he was back on board.
Zoe looked him over skeptically. "I ain't ever had a reason to doubt Monty's word, and River seemed to think you didn't want to be disturbed."
River, in the co-pilot's seat, plotting their next course, smiled over her shoulder at him. "He was laying old ghosts to rest, Zoe. Not our place to intrude." He flushed at the innuendo, and she laughed. Then, in one of those crazy mood swings they'd all grown used to, she turned solemn. "Can't outrun the past, Mal. Makes us who we are today," she said. "Your memory's better than you think."
He shook his head and settled into Wash's seat, hands steady on the stick, grounding him. "Can't outrun it," he agreed, "but can't live in it, either."
Her smile was tinged with sadness now. "When you've learned how to do that, remembering will be easier."
Mal had no answer for that. He focused instead on getting Serenity in the air.
end
*
the girl who in the middle of my life
wakes me and says remember
~ Bang, Octavio Paz
~*~
2/8/07
*
Title inspired by Bang by Octavio Paz, fortuitously posted this morning in breathe_poetry as I was writing this.
The age thing, well, if I'm already importing Tyra into the Flyverse, I figured messing with her age wasn't a big deal, right? *g*
~*~
Feedback would be awesome. I'd love to know if this worked.
~*~