Jossverse Fanfic 100

Buffy Summers, #3.037 - Better Left Unknown

angelus2hot — Sun, 31 Aug 2014 01:39:15 GMT

Title: Better Left Unknown
Author: angelus2hot
Rating: PG-13
Character(s): Buffy Summers, Rupert Giles
Prompt: 037: Bukkake
Word Count: 433

AO3

Buffy Summers, #3.090 - Double Your Fun

angelus2hot — Sun, 31 Aug 2014 00:26:30 GMT

Title: Double Your Fun
Author: angelus2hot
Rating: PG-13
Character(s): Buffy Summers/Riley Finn
Prompt: 090: Double Your Pleasure
Word Count: 333

AO3

Buffy Summers, #3.098 - As You Wish

angelus2hot — Tue, 29 Jul 2014 01:55:01 GMT

Title: As You Wish
Author: angelus2hot
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Characters/Pairing: Rupert Giles/Buffy Summers
Rating: R
Word Count: 1,000

Read on AO3

Buffy Summers, #3.003 - Nostalgic

angelus2hot — Tue, 29 Jul 2014 01:51:16 GMT

Title: Nostalgic
Author: angelus2hot
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Characters/Pairing: Rupert Giles/Buffy Summers
Rating: R
Word Count: 267

Read on AO3

Buffy Summers, #3.007 - Best Left Unknown

angelus2hot — Mon, 26 May 2014 21:18:25 GMT

Title: Best Left Unknown
Author: angelus2hot
Rating: PG-13
Character(s): Buffy Summers, Joyce Summers
Prompt: 007: Spork
Word Count: 174

LJ or AO3

Buffy Summers, #3.81 - Don't Panic

angelus2hot — Mon, 26 May 2014 21:04:54 GMT

Title: Don't Panic
Author: angelus2hot
Rating: PG-13
Character(s): Buffy Summers, Rupert Giles
Prompt: 081: Don't Panic
Word Count: 162

LJ or AO3

Buffy Summers, #3.87 - Don't Leap

angelus2hot — Mon, 26 May 2014 20:45:18 GMT

Title: Don't Leap
Author: angelus2hot
Rating: PG-13
Character(s): Buffy Summers, Willow Rosenberg
Prompt: 087: Look Before You Leap
Word Count: 139

LJ or AO3

Buffy Summers, #3.012 - All Good Things Must End

angelus2hot — Sun, 25 May 2014 23:37:53 GMT

Title: All Good Things Must End
Author: angelus2hot
Rating: PG-13
Character(s): James T. Kirk/Buffy Summers
Prompt: 012: Weird Science
Word Count: 1000

LJ or AO3

Buffy Summers, #3.044 - Of Blindfolds and Trust

angelus2hot — Mon, 19 May 2014 03:00:39 GMT

Title: Of Blindfolds and Trust
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Characters/Pairing: Riley Finn/Buffy Summers
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 529
Summary: Riley wants Buffy to trust him.

LJ or AO3

Buffy Summers, #3.034 - That's Something She Won't Do

angelus2hot — Fri, 25 Oct 2013 15:10:51 GMT

Title: That's Something She Won't Do
Author: angelus2hot
Rating: PG-13
Character(s): Buffy Summers
Prompt: 034: Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious
Word Count: 262

LJ or AO3

Buffy Summers, #3.092 - Some Things Are Better Left Unlearned

angelus2hot — Tue, 23 Jul 2013 02:26:11 GMT

Title: Some Things Are Better Left Unlearned
Author: angelus2hot
Rating: PG-13
Character(s): Rupert Giles/Buffy Summers
Prompt: 092: Crash Test Dummies
Word Count: 294

LJ or AO3

Buffy Summers, #3.050 - What Was But Was Not

angelus2hot — Tue, 02 Jul 2013 21:33:24 GMT

Title: What Was But Was Not
Author: angelus2hot
Rating: PG-13
Characters: James T. Kirk/Buffy Summers
Prompt: 050. Point of No Return
Word Count: 1,000

LJ or AO3

Buffy Summers, #3.008 - Because Of You

angelus2hot — Tue, 02 Jul 2013 21:31:41 GMT

Title: Because Of You
Author: angelus2hot
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Tyr Anasazi/Buffy Summers
Prompt: 008. 27
Word Count: 1,000

LJ or AO3

Buffy Summers, #3.84 - Don't Take Advice From Friends

angelus2hot — Tue, 25 Jun 2013 01:28:25 GMT

Title: Don't Take Advice From Friends
Author: angelus2hot
Rating: PG-13
Character(s): Buffy Summers, Willow, Tara, Xander
Prompt: 084: Pee on it!
Word Count: 100

LJ or AO3

winter_of_faith

aaronlisa — Wed, 26 Dec 2012 19:03:05 GMT

We're currently in the sign up stage. This season's posting will be between January 10 and February 10, 2013. Please be sure to check us out and sign up.

Malcolm Reynolds, #2.37 - Stripping Away The Thorns

jedibuttercup — Mon, 16 Jul 2012 06:30:48 GMT

Title: Stripping Away The Thorns
Author: Jedi Buttercup
Rating: PG-15
Prompt: Malcolm Reynolds, #2.37 - Resurrection
Word Count: 3500
Spoilers: Firefly post-series and movie; Angel 4.18 "Shiny Happy People"
Notes/Warnings: Set in the same 'verse as Of the Wolf, Ram and Hart and Time to Stop Falling; also for an FFA pairing. This may be no interest to anyone but me, but I've been pondering the concept of how Zoe could be Jasmine for years, and this is what she had to tell me.

Summary: Zoë's ready to tell her story. But Mal's maybe not quite so ready to hear it.

"You might say as how I've always been a rebel, Sir," Zoë said quietly, staring out the bridge windows into the starry night.

Mal started a little, feet dropping from the console he'd propped them on to clank against the deckplates. He and his first mate had been sharing the late watch together-- an old habit, formed years before when they'd been sergeant and corporal in the War, took up again since they'd lost Wash to the Reavers. They hadn't actually rubbed two words together since they'd walked up after supper, no more than was needful for the setting of the course; the words had caught him a bit by surprise. The content, however, was no more than he would have expected.

"Really? I hadn't noticed," he murmured, tone as wry as his expression.

She shot a sharp, no nonsense look in his direction, having none of it. "Always," she repeated, slowly. "Long before I ever went by the name of Zoë Alleyne."

A frown knit Mal's brow; he'd known her more'n a decade, since he'd joined the Independents, and she'd been with the army several years before that. Since she was just a slip of a girl; and he'd never heard tell of her wearing another moniker, not until she'd wed their late lamented pilot.

Then again-- their newest passenger had called her 'Jasmine', first time he'd laid eyes on her. And he was a man as hadn't drawn breath outside a cryocoffin in five hundred years, give or take a decade, according to the doctor.

"This about that name what River's new friend called you by this afternoon?" he asked.

Man had called Jayne by the name of Hamilton, too-- untrue, but not surprising, as the latter'd tried to kill Mal once and he'd likewise been discombobulated by the resemblance. But Mr. Charles Gunn had referred to Mal as Caleb as well, a name that he'd never so much as used as an alias, nor heard tell of, and Zoë'd told the man straight out as weren't true. Solely on the strength of that, Mal would have assumed Gunn was imagining things, giving her that flowery name as didn't fit her, neither.

Apart from the fact that she hadn't denied it. And she'd known an awful lot about the folk of the Wolf, Ram and Hart as hadn't even featured in Mal's Ma's fairy tales. He trusted Zoë Washburne. But he didn't know a damn thing about the woman whose likeness had sparked such terror in Gunn's eyes.

Zoë turned back to the windows, expression shuttered close by his question. "That wasn't my original name, either," she said, words dropping like anvils from her mouth.

Mal sucked in a breath, worrying that over, and reminded himself as how she'd stuck with him through some fair unpleasant revelations of his own. Only seemed right to extend her the same benefit he'd been so doubtful of deserving. "Ready to tell that story, then? Thought it would take a mite longer."

Her smile widened a little, though it was still sharp enough to cut. "No time like the present."

"Ain't that the truth," he snorted. Only way to live, ghosts like they all carried.

She stood up out of the co-pilot's seat then, stepping out into the aisle between consoles, and turned her face back to the Black. "You grew up hearing the stories, you said," she began, elliptically.

Mal frowned, watching her profile as she searched the stars for something he didn't yet comprehend. "Yeah. Bunch of fairy tale nonsense, or so I always thought: same stories mothers been tellin' their children for generations on the border planets, aimin' to keep 'em from doing things as they shouldn't."

"And how do you feel about them now?" she asked carefully, still avoiding his eyes.

He blew out a breath, measuring his words with care. "I wish I could say I still believed it was all a bunch of fèihuà," he admitted. "Scares me more than a bit to think there might be some truth in all them stories of scary monsters. But as you said-- Reavers were stories once, too. And some of the things I saw during the war...." He trailed off, shuddering as memory overtook him. "More'n once it was I wrapped my hand around that cross in my bedroll, tellin' myself it was only imagination."

She reached up, crossing her arms and rubbing her hands over her biceps as if she'd taken a sudden chill. "Weren't," she said, curtly.

Mal closed his eyes, resting a hand over his breastbone where that necklace had lain all during his fighting years, for a moment cast back to the trenches. Waiting for relief that never showed, or catching glimpses of strange shapes moving on the fringes of battle. Scavengers, he'd told himself more'n once, given dreadful likeness by his edgy nerves; still and all, he supposed he hadn't been far wrong. A lot of blood had been spilled in that civil war as it raged over half of civilized space; not a surprise that predators had been drawn to its leavings. He just hadn't recognized which sort.

"Well now, that's going to do wonders for my nightmares," he commented dryly. "S'pose I'll take your word for it, though. 'Specially after what happened with that húndàn Hamilton. And what we seen on that transpo we found Gunn on. Only ever heard tell of the like in those self-same stories: men what gave their souls away for power, and turned themselves into something inhuman. Always thought that was a metaphor, before."

Zoë nodded slowly, dark eyes troubled. "Funny thing is, it works the other way, too," she said.

Well now. Mal sat back a bit at that, tilting his head at her. "I'm thinkin' I might maybe need a few more details, there," he replied.

"You sure about that, sir?" She arched her brows at him, tone low and serious and undercut by a hollowness that seemed near as vast as the void outside.

No; he wasn't. But that wasn't what she needed to hear. "Asked if you were still my Zoë, earlier. You said you was. I believe you. But it seems you've a need to talk to someone about this. And I may be no Wash, nor Shepherd Book-- but I've always been your'n, too. I can't say as I don't feel a little left out you hadn't already told me."

She shook her head at that, expression grim. "Never told Wash. Never wanted to see the look on his face. He made me feel joy, and that was something I hadn't had in-- I can't say how long. Didn't want to risk spoiling it. And as for the Shepherd...." She drew in a deep breath and let it out. "I'd be more like to tell Inara, if I had any use for confession. Leastwise I can be certain where her loyalties lie."

Mal rubbed a hand over his mouth, stomach churning uneasily. "And me?"

Zoë smiled back, chill as midwinter on St. Albans. "Didn't think you'd understand either, before the Valley. Nor would want to." She lifted a hand in echo of his motion earlier, resting her fingers over the expanse of skin between the open collar of her shirt and her marriage necklace. "No one ever does, not until they've seen for themselves. Then I went off to the Dust Devils-- and the week I found you again, there was Wash. I figured we both deserved the chance to leave our pasts behind us."

"But now?" He coaxed her to continue.

She shrugged. "Now? No point keeping it silent. You already know enough, might as well fill in the rest. And I think...." She eyed him, eyes tracing over his features, lingering on the cut of his hair, the hinge of his jaw, the shadowed hollows of his eyes in the dim light. "Call it hope."

Mal had not the least, tiniest idea what she meant by that, but he wasn't about to admit it and risk her clamming up again. "Details, then," he decided.

She nodded. "There's a story. You've heard the one about the Girl Who Shut the Mouth of Hell?"

He narrowed his eyes, thinking back to those childhood tales again. He'd heard that one most often from sources other than his mother; but yeah, he knew it. "That's the one where the warrior priestess finds herself fighting an enemy too strong to destroy on her own? So she prays for help, and two folk come to her, offering her an answer. Those Who Watch, who promise to make her stronger at the expense of her identity-- and Those Who Wait, who present her a magic weapon any of her sisters could also pick up, should she fall."

The corner of Zoë's mouth curled up bleak amusement, and he took that as a sign that he was on the right track. "Will always said as how it was an allegory, meant to teach us to rely on one another, not take all the world on our own shoulders no matter the price. Though I'm guessin', from your bringing it up now, that's not so much the actual message."

The smile widened a little, nearly reaching her eyes. "No; not so much. Though even if it were-- you should apologize to Will. Didn't exactly take the lesson to heart, did you?"

Mal winced, not meaning to bring the conversation to a halt-- but he couldn't help but remember what had happened to Shadow, his mother, the forty hands who'd helped to raise him, and all their neighbors, when the Alliance troops set off the grass fires that razed their community to the ground. "Had reason," he managed, words clipped by old pain.

She sighed, expression going grim again as she turned back to the forward windows. "It's a rare being that can. I most certainly didn't."

"And?" He wondered at the phrasing.

"And, if you know the story, you remember the differences between Those Who Watch and Those Who Wait?" she prompted back.

Mal shrugged. "The one's a bunch of old men as served some kind of all-powerful scale-balancers, and t'other's a bunch of old women who wanted the best for the girls of their order. I was always taught that part was, y'know, illustratin' the tension between the good of the community and the good of the individual." His mouth turned down at that: most of the folk as had taken up arms against the Alliance had paid the last full measure of their devotion expressing their opinion on that subject.

Zoë gave him a wry look. "Careful, Cap'n, your education is showing," she drawled, breaking the tension. Then she shook her head, before he could come up with a suitably deflecting reply, and continued. "I suppose there was some of that to it. But mostly, it was a pissing match between some of those scale-balancers... not that they were all committed to balance, and not that they were all-powerful, you understand... and those as thought human beings should plow their own furrows, come what may."

He stared at her a long minute, opening his mouth to reply, then closing it again as he worked through the implications. "You talk like you was there," he finally settled on, watching her warily. "Those women, all the stories agree they was old, but...."

She snorted. "No, I wasn't one of Those Who Wait. Close, though. I was one of the Higher Beings they tried to defy. And they were right to do so."

Mal's jaw dropped. Whatever he'd been half-expecting to hear, it wasn't that. "Cái bù shì. When you say 'Higher Being'...."

Zoë's amusement ebbed again, and she let out a sigh, crossing her arms over her vest. "I know another story. One that starts like this...."

Her voice fell into the rising and falling, measured cadence of a storyteller as she continued. "In the beginning, before the time of man, great beings walked the earth. Untold power emanated from all quarters-- the seeds of what would come to be known as good and evil. But the shadows stretched and became darkness, and the malevolent among us grew stronger. The earth became a demon realm. Those of us who had the will to resist left, but we remained ever-watchful."

He twitched at the half-reference to Those Who Watch, remembering what became of them in the Girl's story, and held his breath as she went on. Not wanting to believe. But not quite daring not to. It was Zoë telling him the story-- and he knew her better than he knew his own self. She was more remote than he'd ever seen her-- even after Wash's death, or in the midst of the war-- but nothing about her posture said she was telling him a lie.

"But then something new emerged from deep inside the earth-- neither demon, nor God. Man. And it seemed, for a time, that through this new race a balance might be restored. But we failed them. We became little more than observers. And so many atrocities were done in our names-- I could no longer bear to just watch all the suffering. I had to find a way back. But, first I needed a miracle. And so I arranged one. Took a lot of doing, though-- and even with all my planning, I failed to account for some of the variables."

When the silence lengthened, Mal swallowed and cleared his throat. He'd spent most of his younger years a believing man, but he'd long since decided there was nobody up there watching the sparrows fall. It strained his credulity to hear Zoë suggest otherwise. The idea she'd gone crazier than River somehow was looking more and more likely, little as he wanted to consider it.

"Variables?" he asked, warily.

"One in particular," she said, coming back to herself a little as she gave him another faint smile. "It was the soul tripped me up, in the end. At first, it didn't much matter to me if I were killing thousands to save billions; I was there to make the best of all possible worlds, without borders, hunger, or misery. And the only definition of love I believed in was sacrifice-- the good of the many, as you said, at the expense of the one. I brought everyone to me, made them part of me; and for a time, it was glorious."

He couldn't repress his shudder at that. Sounded like she'd tried to be all of the Alliance in her own person. He just couldn't reconcile that with the woman he knew. "If you was really all that... then why ain't we all livin' in that utopia right now?" he had to ask.

"Because of folk like you," she said, simply. "Those as believed it was every human's right to choose. Who believed there were such things as absolute right and wrong. I arranged my birth into that world because none of the other Powers gave a solitary damn about it, and I wanted to save it. But I didn't understand the people I was trying to save; what they valued. What it really meant to be one of them. And when I was stopped...."

She trailed off, then shook her head and stared down at her booted feet, shoulders bowed as if by a heavy weight. "I discovered I'd outsmarted myself in more ways than one. Born of human parents-- I had a human soul, too. And I faced the same justice meted out to many another human soul who'd been tainted by arcane power."

"And what might that be?" he asked softly. Starting to understand. He still remembered the look on the Operative's face when he'd discovered the cost of his 'better worlds'; he heard all too much of that in what Zoë was telling him.

"Why, to be reborn again and again until I did understand," she said, bleakly. "Until the last of the taint is gone. Only having been what I was, I've never been able to forget my past, no matter how many lives I live. I was starting to think I might never reach an end-- that I'd be doomed to watch humanity fail to find peace, over and over, while I fought to defend those I'd have devoured in the days of my divinity."

She let the silence hang for a moment, then tilted her head toward him. "I'd given up on ever being aught but alone in it before I saw you again."

"Shén me?" he blurted, his brain still stuttering over that casual mention of divinity.

Then the early part of the conversation caught back up with him, and he damn near choked on his own tongue. "Caleb," he hissed. "But you said...."

She quirked a knowing smile. "And so you aren't. Now. Won't say I wasn't reminded a time or two, though. The dark lieutenant in that story of the Girl? Man started out a powerful believer in the One and True, and when life played him false, he took up the service of another Power as didn't toe the party line. Decided all women were whores, to blame for all the evils of the world, and went on a crusade that took him to the Mouth of Hell as the mouthpiece of its patron."

Mal thought back to that old story, and made a few more sudden, alarming connections as he hadn't recognized at the time. Crusade was an ugly word for his determined pursuit of the truth behind the Reavers, but he supposed it applied. And that weren't all. "You watched me like a hawk, that day I took off my cross. Thought were you afraid I'd do myself a harm, not...." He shook his head abruptly. "And you went over so cold when Saffron first came aboard, suspectin' the worst of me without cause." Not to mention some of the things he'd said to Inara, when they'd been fighting.

To believe, or not to believe? It seemed preposterous. But why should she tell such a farrago of lies?

"Not without cause-- if you were Caleb," she said, firmly. "But you're not. You're a good man, Malcolm Reynolds."

He spluttered with embarrassment, then got up from the pilot's seat, shaking his head. He still didn't pretend to fully believe what-all she'd said-- them, figures out of legend-- but he couldn't deny her, and he could read the defensive bracing of her posture as if it were written on her skin.

Well. He was the man who'd dared face down River in that very room to tell her she was a person, actual and whole-- and aī yā, if he didn't understand now what Hamilton had meant about saving girls instead of killing 'em-- and he'd do no less for the sister of his heart. Or should he say soul-- and didn't that concept set his gut all a-quiver?

Believe in something, Book had told him, laying bloody hands alongside his face. Well. Seemed that he'd found that belief, between River and Zoë. And he surely knew which one needed him more.

"And you think 'cause I don't remember it same as you do, that makes us any different?" he said quietly, reaching out and taking one of Zoë's hands in his. It was warm, slightly smaller than his paws but worn with all the same calluses; darker to the eye, mayhap, but only in superficials, not deep down where it mattered. He'd swear to it.

"Even if, let's say I believe you-- and I'm not saying as I don't," he added as her expression tightened, "though you have to admit it's some mighty fantastical storytellin'-- seems to me you've made your choice. You're no more Jasmine than I am the Harbinger of the story. And you've always believed in me. So I'll have no more of this lookin' at me like I'm about to put you off our boat."

He swallowed, taking her other hand, and looked back up into her face. "Was a thing I said two years ago: and I'll say it again now. We may've arrived in this life for different reasons, but we've come to the same place. And that's all that matters. No time like the present, remember?"

"I remember," she said, giving him a look still jagged round the edges with echoes of pain.

He cleared his throat and floundered for reassurance. "Don't make me repeat the first rule of flying."

She squeezed his hands back, as wordless as he.

Reincarnation. Higher beings. He still didn't quite know what to make of it-- but he'd meant what he said, too. "You still with me, Zoë?" he pressed, needing to hear it.

She let go his hands, briefly pressing her fingers against the spot where the Operative's sword had pierced him through, and gave him a crooked smile. "Dāng rán."

Even if it were all made up, that was all that truly mattered in the end.

-fin-

(x-posted to AO3 & firefly_plus)

ADMIN :ourfandomfest

aaronlisa — Mon, 12 Mar 2012 00:15:34 GMT

ourfandomfest is a fest to celebrate the Buffyverse. Sign ups are currently running until April 1st. Be sure to check the community out.

Promotion: whedonland

aaronlisa — Sat, 14 Jan 2012 06:12:12 GMT

whedonland whedonland whedonland

A new Apocalypse is beginning now!

Admin: Promotion

aaronlisa — Thu, 10 Nov 2011 17:23:52 GMT

To help spread the love of the Buffyverse, I am posting some news about communities/websites.

rekindlespangel - A community devoted to bringing back the love for Spike/Angel. Sign ups can be found here. Be sure to check them out.

winter_of_faith - The seasonal community has opened for Round 2. Please be sure to check out the sign ups here.

And The Gotta Have Faith Fic Awrds have recently opened for Round 2. More info can be found here.

Please be sure to check out the three communities/websites.

Malcolm Reynolds, #2.28 - Strength in Broken Places

jedibuttercup — Fri, 04 Feb 2011 01:32:03 GMT

Title: Strength in Broken Places
Author: Jedi Buttercup
Rating: PG-15
Prompt: Malcolm Reynolds, #2.28 - Shadow
Word Count: 2500
Spoilers: Firefly pre-series
Notes/Warnings: For girlsavesboyfic; and sort of a prequel to Damage Done. Dark themes. Spoilers for the "Better Days" comic and the RPG reference regarding Shadow.

Summary: She hadn't seen Mal in months; not since he'd refused to follow her lead as she'd followed his for the better part of six years.

"Mal was a volunteer. Brass gave up the cause, he took it personal. Shut down some. Some of us was still just soldiers...."
--Zoe Washburne, "Better Days"

Even years later, what the Alliance had left of Shadow weren't much to look at. Zoë gazed down at the planet from the cockpit windows while the Liè Rén's pilot made a wide orbit to take bearings, and grimaced at the black scars coloring every landmass. What patches of greenery had survived the bombing were thin and far between; it would be several generations before the once-lush plains could support anything so large a field-mouse.

'Less, of course, the Alliance chose to bring in high-powered terraformers. Zoë rather doubted it, though. Home of as many Independents as it had been, Shadow had been singled out as an example. No lights burned on its dark side; no life moved under the yellow rays of Huang Long.

None ever would again, save those as went there to remember.

The faint chirp of a pulse beacon set to a very narrow, familiar frequency caught Zoë's attention on the second orbit, and she breathed a quiet sigh of relief. The cargo ship's captain triangulated it to a point near a set of coordinates she'd long since memorized: a string of numbers she'd once watched a man scratch, with painstaking care, into the leather of his gun holster.

Third orbit round, she punched the location into the navcomp of the ship's second shuttle and took the quickest route down. She shook off any offer of support crew; weren't a single thing to guard the shuttle from on the surface, and nowhere else for her to take it to if she'd had larceny in mind. And she surely didn't want any witnesses to the impending reunion.

She hadn't been able to let go when the brass had surrendered the War; the days they'd stewed in Serenity Valley, broiling in the blood of their dead, had burned a hatred for the Parliament's idea of "peace" down to her bones. The Dust Devils had given her a chance to satisfy that anger; had fed that part of her that had seethed at turning over her guns and kept her on her feet all through her spell in the internment camp. She hadn't seen Mal in months; not since he'd refused to follow her lead as she'd followed his for the better part of six years. Hadn't occurred to her, then, to wonder what other purpose he might find; she'd been too furious with him to care.

Not that it had been her responsibility to care. Mal was a man grown, and had resigned any official claim he might've had on her priorities along with his commission. But now that the bitterness of her own loss had ebbed some, she had remembered the look on his face when they'd been told to stand down; the sight of the cross he'd carried without fail through so many battles falling from his hand. His every word had seemed to come at a distance after that, as though shouted through a pair of helmets pressed together in the Black.

Something had gone out of him that day. Zoë hadn't been in a place to help him, then, driven by her own coping methods. But now... well. It had been a long time since she'd taken any leave-- and she knew a few shipfolk as still owed her favors. Beyond everything else, Mal was the closest kin she had left in the 'verse; kin by choice and blood-bought loyalty if not by birth.

Enough waiting. What was, was; time to look to what would be. She fitted a breathing mask to her face, checked its filters, and then cracked open a door into the aftermath of Hell.

Clumpy particulate crunched under her boot heels as she took her first steps outside the shuttle. The red shirt she wore under her coat was the only color as far as her eyes could see; the rest of the world was painted in shades of gray, black, and brown. Even the chilly sky was streaked with a thin marbling of gray-on-white cloud. It made for a monochrome, lifeless landscape, ridged with the low, jagged teeth that were all that remained of ruined walls and machinery. Only someone who knew what the place had been might guess where he stood; to Zoë's unfamiliar eye, years of wind and wet had rendered indistinguishable what little had been left by shell and flame.

Mal would have known where he was going, though; so the long-range cutter parked a short walk to the west would undoubtedly be the best place to start. She lifted the air sampler and took a quick reading as a light breeze tugged at her curls; O levels and pressure were barely within norms, though she wouldn't want to see the inside of her lungs after a few hours of unfiltered breathing. The cutter was Monty's, still transmitting the signal she'd noted earlier; no other electronics had registered anywhere within her shuttle's sensor radius. Not even a radio.

She tucked the sampler in a pocket, then picked her way carefully over the uneven ground, as conscious of the lives that had been lost there as she had been back on Hera. Of all the men they'd led away from the Valley, not one had survived from Mal and Zoë's own platoon; of the few folk who'd escaped the devastation of Shadow, not one had belonged to the ranch owned by Ma Reynolds. Near fifty folk had met their end on these few hectares of dirt, their names recorded nowhere now but in the memory of the heir who'd left for the stars with a pocketful of fragile ideals.

"Mal?" she called carefully, examining the surface for any trace of other footprints as she approached Monty's loaned ship. "Sarge? It's Zoë. Zoë Alleyne."

The faint scrape of something organic rubbing against a rough edge disturbed the silence; the hair on the back of her neck prickled at the sound. Then a voice spoke up, faint and rough with abrasion.

"Ain't a sergeant no more."

Zoë narrowed her eyes, turning toward the direction the voice had come from, and placed her feet carefully as she approached the corner of a once-building where the base of two thick walls had met. Darker smudges against mud-caked stone suggested finger marks just where a man's wide hand might've rested had he used the wall to steady himself, but there were no other signs of the person who'd spoken. Zoë placed her hand where his had been, then leaned over to see what might be seen.

"Once a soldier, always a soldier, sir," she said mildly, pitching her own voice low so as not to startle.

He frowned, but didn't look up. Mal had seated himself with his back against a fragment of wall; he was dressed in sturdy trousers and a brown homespun shirt, caked with patches of drying, ashy mud, and there was another streak at his left temple where he must have pushed agitated fingers through his hair. He wasn't wearing a mask. Beyond his feet, a section of soil about grave-depth had been overturned, spade and long leather coat both discarded atop the pile of leavings. The stubs of a few shattered, blackened floorboards protruded from the mess; she figured they probably accounted for the sluggishly bleeding scratches on his hands.

A gaily painted metal box lay to the left of him: about half a meter each side, all over the green of spring grass, with the Reynolds brand-mark on its upper surface in sunset bronze. Someone had daubed an impression of a summer garden around the sides, iris-purple and daisy-yellow and primrose-pink petals all blurred together; they still showed brightly through the clinging shroud of dirt. It had been opened; she could see the marks where he'd forced the lock, but he'd closed it again after.

In his right hand, he held his favorite revolver-style gun.

"So the Alliance informed me," he replied. "Every time I applied for a loan. Or a job. Or a xī niú public housing allowance."

Zoë's lips thinned at the bitterness in his tone, but she held her first retort back: I told you so. She'd done an end run around the issue, going where she knew she'd be provided for; despite the promises Parliament had made on Unification Day, she'd known better than to hope they'd treat former Browncoat heroes with any decency. But her choice had amounted to as much an attempt at self-destruction as Mal's presence on Shadow; if the Independents had been doomed from the beginning by fewer numbers and older technology, the Dust Devils had surely been damned before their first battle. And these days, they didn't even have the satisfaction of ridding the 'verse of a few more purplebellies at a time; Alliance had started sending mercs against them.

"Surely not in so many words," she said mildly, instead.

Mal did tilt his head back at that, a spark of reaction in his gaze, though his fingers also tightened on the grip of the gun. "Hardly needed to," he said, lip curled in disgust. "They made it clear the likes of me don't belong in their society. Don't belong in any society, not anymore."

"That why you're here?" she asked. She carefully shifted one leg over the broken wall as she spoke, then the other, making a bench of its uncomfortable, crumbly edge: the better to put herself within swift reach, if that were necessary.

He grimaced at the question, glancing over at the vivid box. "Ma was in the habit of keeping a payroll's worth in platinum under the kitchen floor," he said. "Just in case the Cortex connection ever went down before payday. Kept other keepsakes in there, too. I thought... if it were buried deep enough...." He laid his left hand on the lid, as reverently as she'd ever seen him touch a Bible.

Zoë didn't need to ask why he'd picked that day in particular to look for it; the anniversary of Shadow's destruction-- and so his mother's death-- was a milestone every Browncoat had marked during the latter part of the War. If he'd truly hoped to find it, though, she doubted she'd have been there; he'd have given Monty some explanation when he begged the cutter for a trip Rim-ward, and Monty would never have waved her with his worries.

"It's all there?" she asked instead, working crabwise around the words she didn't want to say unless she had to.

"Every bit," he nodded, Adam's apple bobbing visibly as he swallowed. His voice still sounded rough, but clearing a little; not damaged enough to have been on-planet long. Skin wasn't burnt yet, neither; he couldn't have landed more than a few hours before she had.

"Still aim to start over someplace like Kerry or Regina?" she asked. There were a dozen former Independent worlds, more rural than not, he could pick from if that were his choice; Boros had a sizeable garrison, but most others were too poor and thinly settled to require much official oversight.

He stroked his thumb over the bright brand-mark, then lifted his hand back to his lap, fingering the barrel of the gun instead. "No," Mal said, after a long moment. "No; I don't think I have the stomach for farming or ranching no more."

"What then? Aim to market your woodworking skills?" Zoë prodded lightly.

He drew a deep breath, then let it out, slow and heavy. "Thought about cargo hauling."

Thought about; not decided, not planned. Zoë frowned. "Shipboard, I'm assuming?" Out where the Alliance couldn't take the ground from under his boots ever again.

He nodded. "Thought I might ask your advice," he added. "Since you were shipborn, and all."

"Sounds like a mighty fine plan," she replied, cautiously encouraging. "Enough cash for that, you think?"

"If'n I didn't hold out for anything outrageous or new," he shrugged.

Still past tense, Zoë noted, disquieted. She eased off the wall, fair sure he wasn't on a hair trigger by that point, and crouched next to his right hand. "Don't," she said, firmly. "Don't, not didn't."

Blue eyes widened at the movement; tense fingers tightened on the grip of the gun again, but relaxed when she laid one of her own hands over his right wrist. "Zoë..." he began hesitantly, searching her face with a haunted gaze.

"What did we say," she replied, face and voice like stone: the last thing he needed from her was pity or sympathy. "What did we say? If you can't walk...."

He flinched. "That's not...."

"You crawl," she insisted, tightening her grip on him. "And if you can't crawl...."

He took a shaky breath, then looked away. "You find someone to carry you," he finished it, quietly.

"I only aim to say this once," she continued, "so you'd better listen." She paused for effect, then narrowed her eyes into a fierce glare. "If you die proving those hē chùsheng zájiāo de zānghuò right, I'll spend every credit in that box making sure you're buried in a purplebellied uniform, and dedicate a yuèfǔ in your name to be sung in praise of Parliament next U-Day."

He gaped, recoiling from her as though he'd been shot."You... you..." he huffed, then broke into a sudden spate of gut-shaking laughter.

"Oh, and to think I feared you'd come to tell me everything would be 'okay'," he said when he'd recaught his breath, the corners of his mouth lifted for the first time since her arrival.

"You know me better than that," she said, sitting back and releasing her grip at last.

"I do," he said, then finally lifted the hand from the butt of his gun-- to catch her retreating fingers and interlace them with his. "What would I do without you?"

"I'm sure I don't know," she said, lifting her eyebrows loftily. Then she tipped her chin at the box. "Now. You thinking the dockyards on Persephone? Lot of mid-range ships pass through there, lot of itinerant crew looking for work."

He paused a long moment, face settling into serious lines again; then nodded, expression clearing. "You'll be my second, then?"

She didn't fool herself that he'd fully thrown off the black mood; but leaving this planet behind ought to ease him past the worst of it. A home and crew should help him, too; and, she grudgingly admitted, might do for her as well. She'd begun to forget what life was like outside of violence and death, and had no wish to end her days put down like a dog by some paid bounty-hunter.

"Wouldn't trust anyone else with the job," she assured him.

"Good," Mal breathed, then nodded to himself and let go her hand to climb to his feet. The gun went back in its holster; the coat, on his back; and then he stooped to pick up his mother's last gift.

Zoë glanced down at the bloody mark he'd left on her palm, then brushed it off on her sleeve and stood.

-fin-

(x-posted to AO3 & ff_fanfic)

aaronlisa — Tue, 30 Nov 2010 01:42:20 GMT

Last day for sign ups is tomorrow....

winter_of_faith

aaronlisa — Sun, 07 Nov 2010 16:04:48 GMT

Sign ups open today!

Malcolm Reynolds, #2.89 - Damage Done

jedibuttercup — Tue, 28 Sep 2010 00:14:28 GMT

Title: Damage Done
Author: Jedi Buttercup
Rating: PG-15
Prompt: Malcolm Reynolds, #2.89 - Soul
Word Count: 1500
Spoilers: Firefly; "Serenity" (2005); AU for one particular ending scene.
Notes: Title and a few lines of dialogue lifted from the Serenity script. Because some situations are less simple than we see.

Summary: Mal was fed up to the back teeth with folk warped by Alliance ideals dying senseless, wasteful deaths.

"They take you down, I don't expect to grieve over much," Mal said, glancing over at the impassive face of the Operative. Behind him, the Persephone dockyards spread dull and damp under a fitful rain shower; about as lively as the man himself. Some vital spark seemed to have gone out of the nameless assassin's eyes that morning.

"Like to kill you myself, I see you again," he continued, prodding at the implacable will that had so near outmatched his own.

The Operative had come down on the right side at the end; had saved the lives of Mal's surviving crew and patched up their hurt, and so had bought himself a dram of clemency. But not much more than that. He'd killed many of Mal's friends and contacts; had the Shepherd's blood on his hands, and Wash's too, whether he'd been present or not; and had embodied everything Mal ever hated about the Alliance in unapologetic splendor. No amount of turning his back on Parliament could erase that.

The corners of the Operative's mouth curved up; a bare knife of a smile, as like to cut the bearer as the recipient. "You won't," he said, turning away. "There is nothing left to see."

Mal snorted, then turned to walk up the cargo ramp into Serenity.

Turned, but found he couldn't actually take that first step. The Operative's meaning sank in like a lead weight in his gut, and he pressed a palm to his chest at the sensation. Nothing left: no amount of walking away could ease that, either. A week ago, Mal might have felt satisfaction instead-- but a lot had happened in that week. Regardless of what the man had done, Mal was fed up to the back teeth with folk warped by Alliance ideals dying senseless, wasteful deaths.

No shame in this, he remembered the Operative saying on that platform under Mr. Universe's complex: You've done remarkable things.

What happened to a believing man when his entire foundation was ripped out from under him, leaving only bloody reality? Mal knew. He'd been there; was to this day still healing from the experience.

He'd smiled that very smile, once, in a stretch of time between the Allied prison camp and Serenity that he'd since made every effort to forget. If it hadn't been for an outstretched hand at an opportune time-- well, there were reasons he'd never deny Zoe anything he could possibly give, however much he might put up a fuss. And he'd never truly got his feet back, neither, no matter that he'd convinced himself otherwise; not until River and Book had given him sufficient cause.

Slowly, feeling every second of the last seven years pressing on him, he turned back toward the docks. A few berths down, he saw the figure of a man moving in the rain, all clad in dark colors; somehow smaller without the armor and the sword across his back, but no less deadly for that, Mal was sure. Dockworkers moved to avoid him with nary a glance, forming ripples in the general flow of humanity.

Mal swore and stepped away from his refuge, raindrops splashing against his face like tears.

The man didn't make it very hard to catch him; he slowed his steps once he caught onto Mal's presence, then ducked into the shadow of a warehouse where no passersby would easily see. Mal stepped closer again, and again, using the few inches of height he had on him to crowd him back against a stack of crates. He wasn't sure what he was doing, maybe looking for some kind of reaction to prove that he'd made the wrong assumption-- that he'd gone as feng-le as River and wasn't seriously contemplating ways to talk a defeated enemy out of self destruction.

The Operative-- former Operative, now-- let him advance, not so much as twitching a hand toward a concealed weapon. His eyes dropped briefly to take in the holster on Mal's hip, but no more; there was a resigned sort of curiosity to the lines around his eyes, but naught else, just that blank sort of calm Mal had only seen on those assured of their place in the afterlife-- one way or t'other.

"Here to shoot me, then, Captain?" he asked, as cool as though he were discussing the price of beagles on Londinium.

Mal ignored that; studied him with furrowed brow for a moment, recalling another man he suspected had gone nameless for a time and times and half a time before discovering the Good Book. "What's your name?" he asked, struck by a poetical idea. "Or-- was, 'fore the Alliance got hold of you."

Dark eyebrows rose at the question. "Does it matter?"

"Suppose it doesn't," Mal shrugged. That was enough of an answer. "Just occurred to me that a man needing a new one might look up Southdown Abbey. Ain't far from here, and they're used to giving out second chances."

That sparked something in the other's eyes at last. He scrutinized Mal's face again, as though looking for evidence of something unexpected. "Why tell me this?"

Mal grimaced. The longer this conversation drew out, the more uneasy he got. But he couldn't not finish it, not now that he'd started. Jayne's voice echoed dimly in his ears, angry with frustration: Alliance starts the war, and then you volunteer.

Or his mother's voice, from his long-buried childhood: You are responsible, forever, for what you have tamed.

He cleared his throat. "I was a believer once," he said in low tones. "And then the war ended. Seems like you've found your own ending, but you ain't likely to thrive on the same coping methods. I knew another like you, found his own measure of peace in that place."

Recognition flickered in the former Operative's expression. "Derrial Book," he said.

Mal inclined his head at the confirmation, fists clenched, the memory of those cold, bloody hands prickling against his skin. "Never did ask what his name was, before. Never mattered. He mattered, made a difference to us just as he was."

The other's emotionless façade cracked further. "What I am-- what I've been-- there is no path forward from such complete failure," he said, words drawn like pulling nails. "River Tam was hardly my first objective; I have cleansed more imperfections in the name of an illusory better world than any one man could atone for in a lifetime."

Mal winced. More confirmation that he hadn't really wanted. And yet. "Don't, then," he said.

"...Shen me?"

Mal blew out a breath, then continued, carefully piecing concepts he'd never really analyzed before into words. Things he'd learned, but hadn't truly internalized until the man who'd clarified them for him was gone. "Second chances are about starting over. Clearing the slate, like you done for the Tams; and like Book done for himself. Can't move forward-- can't help anyone, least of all yourself-- with your head still stuck in the past."

"You really think I am suited to helping others?" came the disbelieving reply.

"I think you owe all those imperfections the chance to find out," Mal replied bluntly. Then he smiled, reflecting the same bleak twitch of mouth the other had given earlier. "I aim to visit that abbey a year from now, leave an offering. You still want that bullet from me, I'll give it to you then."

Silence drew out between them for a long moment; the Eavesdown Docks were growing noisier as the rain clouds moved on, but none of the sounds seemed to penetrate the private bubble drawn around them. Finally, the former Operative broke the tension, inclining his head in acknowledgement as he pressed his hands, palm to palm, in front of him.

Mal swallowed at that, discomfort roiling around the lead weight in his gut, and looked away; by the time he turned back, unsure how to end the conversation, the other man had taken the initiative and gone. Quietly, this time; tread less heavy on the pavement, hopefully reflective of a less heavy heart.

He swiped a hand over his face, feeling the sting of cool air against damp skin like a lanced wound, then shook his head and trod back toward his home.

Zoe was waiting when he returned, eyes still shadowed with her own recent devastation. "Sir?"

He gave her a faint, apologetic grimace. "We got a green light?"

She nodded. "Inspection's pos, and we're cleared for upthrust. Was that...?"

She'd seen, then. Mal nodded, but didn't elaborate, not keen to cut her further with his problems. "Think she'll hold together?"

Zoe's expression warmed then; not much, but enough. More evidence that she was the strongest person he'd ever known. "She's tore up plenty," she replied, "but she'll fly true."

And wasn't that was really the best any of them could hope for? Mal nodded, then strode up the ramp.

Zoe turned to face the same direction as he passed her, walking onward and upward at his side.

-fin-

(x-posted to jedibuttercup & ff_fanfic)

Malcolm Reynolds, #2.71 - Time to Stop Falling

jedibuttercup — Mon, 02 Aug 2010 03:32:54 GMT

Title: Time to Stop Falling
Author: Jedi Buttercup
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: Malcolm Reynolds, #2.71 - Fall
Word Count: 2100
Summary: It unsettled Mal a little, the idea that there had been folk doing to others what had been done to River-- or near enough-- even so many years ago.
Spoilers: Firefly; "Serenity" (2005); the last seasons of Buffy & Angel.

Notes: Picking up my claim again, after several years left fallow (oops). This one's set in the same 'verse as my earlier short, 'Of the Wolf, Ram and Hart'.

"So, what's the verdict, Doc?" Malcolm Reynolds said, looking down at the coffin-shaped crate his crew had brought over from the derelict starship.

Simon Tam, fugitive, annoying pain in his ass, and highly trained core doctor, looked up from the little glowing panel on the side of the crate and shook his head in bemusement. "I have no idea how this man is even still alive," he said. "For whatever value of alive might apply. This technology is centuries old; at least twice as old as the ship out there."

"A ship which represents an intriguing anomaly in its own right," Inara said, leaning against the cargo bay railing next to Mal. She was dressed finely as always, as befit her status as a highly trained and educated Companion; but she'd used a light hand on the makeup brush that day, and she went barefoot, as had been more common for her since the dustup at Miranda. Mal leaned a mite closer to her as they played spectator, and relished the uncomplicated warmth of her against his arm.

"Kaylee says that according to its registry, its last port of call was on Earth, under a company name listed only as W&H, but none of the parts are anywhere near as old as they should be if it were part of the colonial exodus," Inara continued. A delicate frown marred the fine skin of her brow.

"Someone, somewhere, really wanted this man saved," Simon sighed. Then he stood, brushing dirt from the knees of his trousers, and turned to look up at Mal. "Unfortunately, he was very severely wounded before he was put into stasis; the abdominal perforation on its own would have been a challenge to the medical profession of his day, but there are indications that he was mauled by some sort of creature afterward, which infected him with a very aggressive pathogen that I have no frame of reference for. It would be folly to try to heal him without knowing more; but we may not have a choice, given the deterioration in the chamber's systems. It could be weeks, days, or even hours before the circuitry fails; Kaylee would be able to pinpoint it more accurately, but it will definitely be soon. Likely before we can find a world with adequate medical facilities that will accept our custom."

Mal pursed his lips, considering the situation, and glanced up at the cargo bay doors that still stood open on their connecting passage with the derelict ship. Zoë and Kaylee were still exploring its dusty innards, looking for more useful bits and bobs that might've survived the passage of time and the long-ago attack that had left it drifting. "Seems to me we found him just in the nick of time, then."

"Seems to me our creepifyin' pilot might maybe have kenned he was there, and brought us out here to the ass end of nowhere on purpose," Jayne observed, coming down the hallway from the dining room. "Navigation error my ass." He took a spot on the railing on the other side of Mal, eyes fixed not on the crate but on the slight figure slumped against it, ear pressed against its side about where a man's heart should be.

"He's a fighter," River observed in a mournful tone of voice. "Name like a weapon. Fought like one too, noble and true even when he got confused." She smiled a little at that, then shifted, turning her face so she could look up at her brother. "Remembered too much. Some of it was made up, and there were too many secrets... but he found his way out and went down fighting, the way he'd always wanted."

Simon swallowed visibly at that; it was plain he understood from that speech what had drawn his Reader of a sister to their slumbering guest. Mal understood, too; and it unsettled him a little, the idea that there had been folk doing to others what had been done to River-- or near enough-- even so many years ago. He knew better than most how dark the seamy underbelly of Humanity could get, but like most Rim-world children raised on stories of Earth-That-Was, he still cherished the idea of their long-ago home as paradise lost: green and rich and covered in a multitude of separate nations, each with their own ideologies, cultures, and governments to bow to. No Alliance lese gathering all the worlds under one banner, whether they will or no.

"Well, we'll do our best to see he lives to fight another day, little one," he said, nodding down to her. "Won't turn a man in need away."

He had cause to regret that promise a few days later. The stasis chamber had failed, just as Simon had said it would; and their guest had pulled through, just as River had wanted. They hadn't counted on him waking as ornery as a bear caught in a trap.

After hours of difficult surgery and the use of more of Simon's stolen core-world drugs than they could really afford to spare, their guest had finally slipped into a healing sleep. Mal had left Jayne behind to guard him, while the rest of them went through the last of the records and antique goods brought off the Angel; fighter or no, it had seemed unlikely that a wounded man without a weapon on him would be any challenge to the mercenary's skill even if he should prove to be difficult. The first clue they'd had that anything was wrong had been a choked-off bellow of surprise, followed by the clanging of metal implements hitting the floor.

Mal was first down the stairs, with Zoë and River close behind him, and Simon on his sister's heels. He waved the others back as they came into range of the infirmary windows, easing his pistol out of its holster on his hip, and peered into the confined space; the normally orderly room was an unholy mess, tools and drugs strewn about every which-a-way, and Jayne backed into a corner by the shirtless patient. From the looks of his broad, bandaged chest, he'd torn a stitch or two in his waking, and the trembling of his visible muscles made it clear he'd run out of gas again soon-- but he had Jayne bent backward with a knife to his throat, and if they didn't interrupt him, soon might be too late.

"'Scuse me, is this a private party, or can anyone join in?" Mal said blandly, easing into the room gun-first. He'd be perfectly willing to put the pistol down to ease hostilities; but only if the other also lowered his knife, and in the meanwhile he might be able to shoot faster than that blade could cut. Man liked to keep his options open in a situation like that.

Strangely, the man paled even further at the sight of him, going all ashy-grey in the face. "Caleb," he blurted, then glanced past Mal's shoulder and swallowed visibly. "Jasmine," he whispered, sounding pole-axed. "What kinda Hell did I wake up in? Ain't y'all supposed to haunt the heroes, not their sidekicks?"

Something in Mal froze at the name the man had given him, and he lowered the gun slowly, putting connections together in his mind. Inara'd said the Angel sailed for a company name of W&H; could that stand for the Wolf, Ram, and Hart? Nigh on a year ago he'd been captured and tortured by a man looked just like Jayne that couldn't be killed without you staked him in the heart first and scattered him across the black in a dozen separate pieces. He'd called Mal 'Caleb', too. And Zoë had been real skittish about the matter; she'd known something about him, something beyond the legends of immortal assassins that slipped round the edges of the 'verse, that she hadn't been willing to say. The whole mess added up to a very ugly sum; one he wasn't sure he wanted more details of.

At least River had taken to this one. She hadn't gone anywhere near Hamilton's corpse when they'd had it aboard, not even as close as the kitchen.

"Ain't no kind of Hell at all," he said calmly, gesturing to Zoë to lower her gun as well. "Not to those of us as call it home. And we ain't who you think we are, neither. If you're thinkin' that one there's called Hamilton, got to tell you, I completely understand the urge you're havin' to kill him; but we took care of that tama de hundan last year. This here's Jayne Cobb, and he's a member of my crew. My name's Mal Reynolds. And my second here is Zoë Washburne."

"He ain't lyin'," Zoë said, quietly, at his side. "He ain't Caleb, and we've run afoul of the Wolf, Ram, and Hart before. Kinda curious that we found you on one of their ships, though."

The trapped panic in his eyes cleared a little at Zoë's calm insinuation, and he straightened a little, loosening his grip on Jayne's throat. "Don't know about any ship. Last thing I knew, Wolfram and Hart had sent an army to kill me and mine. Their kind of severance agreements are just a little on the literal side, and your guy here looks exactly like their hatchet man."

"No hatchets here," River said, pushing Zoë and then Mal gently out of her way and gliding into the room. "Just people, who want to be your friends."

Mal was tempted to grab hold of the girl and stop her, but she'd more than proven she knew her way around sharp edges, feng-le or not. And she had drawn them to him. Hopefully, she had a plan.

Their guest relaxed a little further, looking at her; she was wearing a long, flowing gown gone ragged at the hem, one of Inara's cast-offs, a size or two loose on her, with her hair all down and tangled. She looked younger than she was, and next best thing to harmless. "And who are you, little girl?" he asked.

"I'm River," she said calmly, halting a few arm-lengths away. His knife had pressed closer to Jayne's throat again as she approached, but he stopped again when she did. A slow bead of blood welled up, trickling down Jayne's throat; Jayne swallowed, but his eyes were still clear, and Mal could see one of his hands groping along the nearby counter for something of use.

"It's rude to ask my name and not offer yours, though," River chided him.

He narrowed his eyes at her. "Gunn," he said, grudgingly. "They call me Gunn."

"Strong name for a strong man," River mused, tipping her head to the side. "You've been asleep five hundred years, Gunn."

"Five hundred-- what?" he objected. The tremor in his muscles had increased, and he blinked as though the lights in the room were blinding him, but he still didn't let go his weapon.

"Say goodbye to everything you ever knew," she told him, in gentle tones. "Time to stop falling."

That caught at Gunn's breath; and finally, finally he lowered the knife toward the floor. Jayne skittered away as soon as the blade left his throat, swinging around a bedpan he'd picked up to brain him with; River slid inside his reach just in time, catching the metal before it could impact. Then she turned to catch Gunn as his eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped toward the floor.

Simon edged into the infirmary then, to help her ease his patient back onto the bed; and Jayne swore, grabbing up a piece of gauze and pressing it to his neck as he stormed out of the room.

Mal turned his eyes toward his second, thoughtful and quiet, as they backed out to let Simon work. "Notice you didn't tell the man you weren't what he called you," he said, slowly.

A grim smile turned up one corner of her mouth. "No, no I didn't," she said. "And that still ain't a story I'm anywhere near ready to tell."

"You're still my Zoë, though," he added for clarification's sake, raising his eyebrows at her.

Her expression softened a little, and she nodded. "Always was, sir."

He sighed. "Good. Then whenever you're ready to tell's soon enough. Meantime, though, I'd better go make sure navigation's set."

"I'll keep an eye out here," Zoë assured him.

And that was that. Mal shook his head as he tramped back up to the bridge, wondering what in the tian xiode would happen next.

-fin-

(x-posted to jedibuttercup & twistedshorts)

Mal/River Drabbles

spooky_xphile — Fri, 02 Apr 2010 00:29:52 GMT

Title: Second Skin
Author: spooky_xphile
Rating: PG
Characters: River
Prompt: #57: Satin
Word Count: 108

The feel of Inara’s dress on River’s hand is something foreign and long forgotten. She remembered when she was a younger girl—perhaps fourteen—when her mother would allow young River to dress in satin for dinner parties and high class functions they would attend. River was a fan of the material and liked how it moved when she moved. It would become a second skin to her for the night and it would be off until another night like it. She felt the material leave her again as Inara thanked her for holding it for the moment and Rive was glad to be rid of the thing.

Title: Appreciative
Author: spooky_xphile
Rating: PG-13
Characters: River
Prompt: #58: Cotton
Word Count: 108

River loved the feel of the summer dresses that she wore while aboard Serenity. They were comfortable and soft and not scratchy like some of the things she had worn when she was with her parents or even the Alliance issued uniforms. Inara had told her once the material was cotton and used in many of the clothing worn by people outside of the core planets. She appreciated the feel of it and noticed the other members on the ship would wear the same material. She was especially appreciative when she was wearing one of the Captain’s shirts after waking one morning and found it smelling like him.

Title: Source of Light
Author: spooky_xphile
Rating: PG
Characters: Mal, River
Prompt: #59: Candle
Word Count: 101

The flame flickers back and forth and Mal knows that River’s full attention is on it. She had been gazing at the small candle over an hour now, long enough for the ship’s crew to get whatever supplies they needed on the outer rim planet. She was so fascinated how it jumped whenever someone walked into the small shop. Simon had offered her to get her an ice planet as they waited but she refused and instead watched the small source of light. Finally, when they were done, the young girl snuffed out the flame and pronounced it went somewhere else.

Title: Bonnet
Author: spooky_xphile
Prompt: #62: Hat
Rating: PG
Characters: Mal/River
Spoilers: Our Mrs Reynolds
Word Count: 102

“The bonnet looks ridiculous.” River squeaked with laughter.

“I think it makes me mighty gentleman-like.” Mal said as he tuned every which way for her to see him from every angle. “Plus, the men we came across didn’t like it much.”

“I can see why.” River mumbled but broke into laughter.

“What do you suggest which hat I should wear for our next heist then?” He asked as he stepped near her.

She placed her hands on each side of his face and pulled him into a sweet kiss. “None. I like my Mal the way he is thank you very much.”

Title: Snowball
Author: spooky_xphile
Rating: PG
Characters: Mal/River
Prompt: #63: Winter
Word Count: 121

When they land on some planet, it is their winter. The air is cold and crisp with snow flurrying around them. Mal knows they will be able to break atmo with Wash at the helm. He grudgingly watches Kaylee and River play around in the snow that’s on the ground. He hates winter because they were never any on Shadow. He gets a snowball in the back of the head and he turns to see it was Kaylee who threw it. He chases after her behind a tree but is surprised to see him being pulled toward River. Her hair was flecks of snow in it and he cannot help but notice her beauty. “I guess you like winter now, huh?”

Title: Not Too Bad
Author: spooky_xphile
Rating: PG-13
Characters: River
Prompt: #64: Summer
Word Count: 139

River hates summer. The air is sticky and humid and warm. She does not like the feeling that she gets when she steps outside of the ship and she is immediately hit with the heat. She figures she looks like a mess like Kaylee, but even the mechanic can still look adorable when the temperature reaches one hundred degrees. Even Inara and Zoe look nice and cool but that was probably due to some sort of training. All the men could not deal with the heat and the sweat stains were evident on all their shirts. Mal could hardly take it as opposed to Zoe. He had to wring out his shirt every time they hit a planet during a heat wave. Maybe she did like summer after all. The sight of Mal without his shirt was payment enough.

Title: Not Used To
Author: spooky_xphile
Rating: PG
Characters: Mal/River
Prompt: #65: Fall
Word Count: 105

She was not used to falling be it in life or dancing. She never did fall. But this time, she was and it terrified her. She did not intend to fall for someone in her life. She was damaged goods and broken beyond any level her brother could fathom. But fell she did. The man was there for her always even if she did not need it at the time. At first, she could not comprehend her feelings until she noticed that she and the man were acting like the warrior woman and the pilot. She could not stop herself from falling for the Captain.

Title: Haunted
Author: spooky_xphile
Rating: PG
Characters: River
Prompt: #76: Spray
Word Count: 103

The Alliance would clean their new “students” as they came onto the planet. They would have a few of their men grab said student and hose them down. No, it was more like spray them with water that was at a very high pressure that there would be welts soon enough. But no, the welts did not come from the pressure alone, the water would be at a high degree that the student would be sure that burns would start. But they never did; they would always stop before it got that far. River remembers this and it haunts her to this day.

Title: No One Else
Author: spooky_xphile
Rating: PG
Characters: Mal/River
Prompt: #78: Other
Word Count: 106

There was no other person. It was plain and simple. He had repeatedly told her this and sometimes she listened while other times she did not. He wanted her to understand and comprehend but he felt like he was talking to a brick wall a lot of the time. He had asked the doctor once if the girl would understand anything and the doctor did not have much hope. The Alliance had done something mighty fierce to her mind and it pissed him off that he was paying the consequences. He wanted his other half with him but she did not know sometimes that she was.

Title: Heartbreak
Author: spooky_xphile
Rating: PG
Characters: Mal/River
Prompt: #84: Newspaper
Word Count: 115

The cortext is the only news they have out in the black. It is like what the people of Earth-That-Was call a newspaper. From Mal’s understanding, they used to put announcements in the newspapers just like they do on the cortext. He hates that he is staring at this particular engagement announcement because it makes him want to go back to Osiris. There she is, his River, on the cortext screen but this time she was not being hunted. No, she was being paraded for being engaged to some rich businessman that her parents had probably planned for her a long time ago. He finally shuts off the cortext and he feels his heart break.