fic

[rivendellrose]

Gacked from d_generate_girl: Pick a fandom. Set your playlist to random, then select two or three lines from the first five songs played. Write drabbles/ficlets for each song in this fandom.

Fandom: Firefly, naturally. Although I might do this again later, for another fandom or two. In most cases, inspiration is gleaned from the whole song as well as specifically from the lines chosen. As a note - this thing took forever. Hopefully a few of them were worth it.

1. Silent Night/Night of Silence - "Unleashed," UW A Capellla
We tremble in shadows this cold endless night.
[...]
Fire of hope is our only warmth,
Weary, its flame will be dying soon.

With thanks to nekokoban for pointing me in the direction of the real story, Christmas on the British-German front in 1914. 100_women prompt 072: Winter.


Growing up on a spaceship, Zoe'd always wondered what it'd be like to have a white Christmas - snow all over, like in the pictures from books her parents downloaded for her off the cortex, thick and soft and almost cozy-looking, like a blanket. She'd never known how cold and just plain miserable a snowy night could be, not until she'd joined the army and been stationed on planets like this one. Years too late to appreciate it, she finally had her gorram white Christmas, and could curse her childhood self for being so infatuated with the thought.

It was snowing, alright - drifts of the damned stuff had piled up over the no-man's-land between Independent and Alliance trenches, as well as in their trench, blowing into the tents, slipping down people's collars and melting there, trickling down their backs like the raised hackles of foreboding... it put the young ones on edge, made the old ones cranky, and just plain wrecked havoc with everyone's morale. Zoe's hair, scarf and shoulders were covered in the stuff, and Private Jiang's brown wool cap - a Christmas present from her mother, recieved in the last batch of mail about two weeks before - reminded Zoe of some kind of frosted chocolate pastry. The thought made her stomach growl.

Everyone dealt with the constant snowfall in different ways, she'd noticed. Tracey kept shaking his head, trying to get the ice crystals out of his hair before his body heat melted them and soaked his head, whereas Mal'd long since given up on that uphill battle. Zoe expected he knew he had more than enough no-win situations in front of him.

"No word on supplies?"

"Not yet." He shrugged a bit deeper into his coat, rubbing his hands together to keep feeling in them. "Heard some chatter on the radio to do with the weather bein' too bad to risk couriers. They'd rather risk us starvin' than take a chance on losing one of those shiny new mules."

Zoe just nodded. She'd been expecting that, of course - knew the procedures and whims of the brass better than he ever would.

"So that's it, then. Another day on protein and water, and the last of it at that." He looked around at the huddled clumps of soldiers scattered in the trench around them. Cold, miserable, and damned tired of pecking away at the nearby enemy, locked in a constant stalemate. Worried that the end of the stalemate wouldn't be pleasant for their side. Worried they wouldn't live another year. Mal sighed. "Merry Christmas, Zoe."

"Merry Christmas, sir."

"It's a pretty night."

Zoe turned to him, incredulous. "Beg pardon, sir?"

"I said it's pretty, Zo'. All the snow and all - makes it look like a real Christmas. 'Shepherds watch their flocks at night,' and all that. Peace on earth, goodwill toward men... Makes it all seem a bit closer, nights like this."

Covered in snow, just as hungry and cold as the rest of them, and the sergeant still couldn't seem to let go of that bloody-minded optimism that had always shocked Zoe a bit. She checked his expression out of the corner of her eye, half certain she'd find the quirk of sarcasm in his lips, but found nothing of the sort. The gorram man meant every word he was saying.

"You might want to have your head examined next time we're near a base, sir. Something might be frozen up there."

"Other than my hair?" Mal grinned. "Come on. I'm gonna see if I can't stir up the troops to sing some carols, rile them purple-bellies over there some. We're close enough we might as well bother them as much as hearing them's been bugging us. You in?"

"Ain't much for singing, sir. Not at a time like this, at least."

"Don't have to be pretty." He looked like some kind of dog, shaking his head to clear the snow, his eyes glinting devilishly. "Can't carry a tune, myself, and I hear Tracey's no better. That's part of the fun."

"I won't spoil it for you, then."

He shrugged. "Your loss."

She watched him as he circled through the trench, gathering at first a small group around him, then more as they actually started, coarse and off-key just as he'd promised, belting into the darkness in the general direction of the lights reflecting from Alliance lamps onto the pristine snow. It was horrible. Poor Jiang and a few others tried for harmony for a while, then gave in to the clash of untrained voices around them, more like schoolboys on a lark than any kind of Christmas choir Zoe'd ever heard, on the cortex or otherwise. After a few minutes, jeers and cursing in English and Mandarin rang out from the Fed camp, followed by a returning chorus. Most likely they meant just to drown out Mal and his cohorts, but Zoe could see a few grins around the trench, and even hear a bit of laughter.

In the space of breathing between verses, a dirty snowball smacked against Zoe's shoulder. She turned and, as she'd expected, found the sergeant grinning at her, unrepentant. "Come on, Zoe!"

Another small volley of snowballs rained into the trench, this time angling in from the opposite side of no-man's land. Zoe's eyes widened for a minute when one hit Mal smack in the forehead, her mind's eye flashing a horrific image of a percussion grenade packed within the greyish ice and her sergeant, recently become the closest friend she'd had in a while, exploding in a bloody mess of organs and bone fragments.

She wasn't the only one worried - the whole trench fell silent until Mal's laughter rang out and he wiped the crystals and slush off his hair and shoulders. "Alright, you dirty purple-bellies asked for it, this time!" To a man, the brave 52nd Overlanders followed their sergeant's example and bent to pack snowballs, laughing even as they did. It was ludicrous. It was insane. It was likely to get them all killed once the feds realized they weren't paying attention to the frozen missiles anymore and started packing them with the real thing. But a kind of giddy relief rose up in Zoe's throat, and she joined in despite her own better judgment. And when they'd tired of throwing snowballs across the lines, it turned into throwing them at each other, cackling and ducking in and out of equipment. At last, the sentries called midnight and everyone gave up and just collapsed, exhausted but somehow pleased with themselves.

The snowfall that'd driven them mad the last weeks didn't seem so vicious, anymore, and an occasional voice still lifted in a snatch of song, now slow and thoughtful, and a soft harmony rose between the two camps. A handful of men and women on each side sang of peace and hope, and Zoe fell asleep thinking that maybe the sergeant wasn't quite so crazy, after all.

2. Angel - Sarah Mclachlan
It don't make no difference,
escaping one last time -
it's easier to believe in this sweet madness...

This… uh… I’m weak. Let’s call it PG-13, but I will warn that there are Themes, and a person with a particular bent of mind could easily read this as River/Zoe. Or Zoe/River. However you feel like ordering it. 100_women prompt 037: Possession.

Time doesn’t mean much, in the black. No sun, no moon, no seasons mark its passage - only the wear on engine parts, the steady need to buy new fuel and new food, ammo, engine parts, and move from job to job as tired lines and sags sink into once-young skin to tell the story of time. These things are too much in the everyday, too familiar and creeping to really notice as they happen. When something calls them to attention, they seem to have snuck up in ambush.

For the first time in a year, Zoe really looks in the little mirror above what passes for a sink in her quarters, and for the first time in her life really sees time closing in on her, and the cold and haunted look she’d once thought chased away forever. It’s no wonder the others watch her warily, now. Probably wondering how long it’ll take her to join her husband in an early grave.

It doesn't sound like a bad idea, either. If she didn't doubt Mal would be able to go on without her... She's thought about it before, looked at the sawed-off and considered how inviting a bullet through the roof of her mouth might be. She knows how to do it, how to make it quick and certain, and knows for a fact that she won't flinch. She's never once doubted her ability to fire a shot. She doesn't like the thought of leaving Mal and the others to clean up, though - it makes a hell of a mess when someone blows their brains out, especially in an enclosed space like the bunk. The knowledge that River would feel it happen, the thought of Kaylee seeing her like that, of Simon and Inara wondering if they could have done more to help her... of Mal blaming himself for yet another death he coudln't do a damn thing to stop. These things stop her every time. Her practicality is supreme.

Every job that goes well, every escape cunningly executed, every moment that was once a victory is now just another day. Which is not to say that the failures weigh heavily, either - it seems, lately, that she’s beyond these things. Beyond feeling, beyond this life, and detached in a way that she remembers all too well. Mal’s tried to talk to her about it - God bless him, the man can’t be blamed for the attempt, but it was one of the more awkward moments in their long friendship, and she brushed him off as well as she could without unduly bruising a tenderness that he so rarely showed. She realizes now that he was worried for her, scared even, and looking in the mirror she can understand why. She looks, and feels, now that she’s noticed it, like the walking dead. It occurs to her to be a bit insulted, although pride in her appearance has long since passed away into carelessness.

Too young to feel so damned old, she remembers someone long ago saying, and realizes she can’t remember her own age, off-hand. Thirty-three? Or thirty-five, perhaps? She sees a white strand in her curls and mentally adjusts in the latter direction, then disengages from the train of thought. It doesn’t matter.

"Tied up so tight, it hurts to take a full breath. You'll drown if you don't open your eyes and swim."

"Aiya! Tamade..." Zoe whirls and picks the slim figure of a dark-haired girl out of the shadows on her bed, ghostly and slender, pale legs dangling off the edge of the bunk and hair hanging in her face. "River, how many times have we been over this? Can't have you showing up in random people's rooms."

"I don't. Not random." She smiles. "Only here."

"Then don't show up here."

The smile in the darkness gets bigger, and Zoe finds herself thinking of a ghostly cat in some story her mother used to tell, about little girls and packs of cards. River unfolds herself from the bunk and stretches luxuriantly... which is when Zoe noticed the bright shirt she has wrapped around her tiny frame.

"Leave that here. It doesn't belong to you."

"As much to me as to anyone." River plucks at the fabric, then begins to pop the little buttons.

Zoe shakes her head and starts to turn away when she realizes that the girl isn't wearing anything but a thin, oversized nightgown underneath... and a devilish, eerily familiar grin above. "Forget it," she grits out - no idea why this sets her so much on edge, but she's eager to see the girl gone. "Just bring the thing back tomorrow. Go back to your room."

"I'm very comfortable here." River finishes unbuttoning the old Hawaiian shirt and leaves it open, flapping around her slight figure as she pads forward on silent feet. "All the memories live here. Safety, warmth." She closes her eyes as though listening to something far away. "All here. You've let it wane, dark and cold. Shouldn't leave the fire untended, there won't be coals to start it again later if you don't take care."

"Could've sworn your brother said you weren't crazy anymore."

"Once broken, a thing never comes back together in the same way, no matter how much glue and hope and bailing wire you use. Ask Kaylee, she knows. Simon knows, too, but he pretends he can – doesn’t like to think all his training was for nothing. Still fly true, though. Still a leaf on the--"

Zoe's momentum is halfway into slapping the girl before she realizes what she's doing and pulls the strike. River's hand is up to guard before she can find out whether she would have succeeded, and they stare at each other. River doesn't seem at all surprised, but Zoe's pulse is pounding in her ears. "Don't talk about him. Not like this."

"I don't have to. I remember." River takes hold of Zoe's wrist and lowers their arms together. Her thumb rubs lightly on the inner flat of Zoe's wrist, just in the hollow between flesh and bone, where a scar makes the skin sensitive and almost ticklish.

Zoe tries to pull away, but River's grip is surprisingly strong. Zoe remembers the surveillance footage they all saw of the incident at the Maidenhead, and wonders for a moment whether she’s about to see a live reenactment. After a tense instant, River just bends to look at the fine scar, birdlike in the delicate tilt of her head and the intensity of her examination. "I remember. Piece of metal cut you in the war, shrapnel from the first battle you were in. Thought you might bleed out and die, but it missed the vein. He used to kiss it, make you laugh because it feels strange."

"Get out of my head."

"It's not in your head. His thoughts, his memories. He echoes here, all over the ship, but most of all here in this room."

"That's enough." She would have thought that tone of command would work on anybody - it'd always been enough for scared, green soldiers in the war, or to stop Jayne on one of his rants, but River just looks at her and smiles, the expression maddeningly like Wash. A chill goes down Zoe’s spine. "Go back to your room, and your brother."

"He's busy," River informs her primly. "Went to the engine room to play, he won't want to be disturbed. One of us being disturbed is enough." It takes a moment for Zoe to catch up to the pun, and when she shakes her head at the joke, River giggles.

"This isn't funny. I'm not having this conversation with you, girl - I want you to leave this room, right now."

"If you don't want to have this conversation with me, have it with him." River taps the side of her skull with a knowing smile. "All here, all echoing and waiting. He's missed you."

Zoe closes her eyes and counts to ten, then does it again for good measure and because when her mama taught her to do that, she sure as hell didn't have crazy reader-girls in mind. "I want you to turn around, and leave this bunk. Now.”

This time River pulls back, finally releasing Zoe’s wrist and curling in on herself, shoulders rising as though hoping to hide her face. “North-northwestern winds blow, and everything goes mad,” she mutters. “When the wind is gone, leaves drop in the stream and the current carries them to the sea. I didn’t mean to… I didn’t want to do it, but that’s how it happened. Need the earth, stone, solid under our feet, something to lift us when the wind is gone, direct the tides when water moves without purpose. I’m sorry…” She curled up on the edge of the bunk again, and large eyes flickered up to Zoe, then lowered, focused on the ground again. “I’m sorry. I thought it would help.”

Zoe sighs. “It’s not your fault, River. But pretendin’ he’s not gone won’t make this easier. For any of us.”

The insulted pout is unmistakable. “It isn’t pretend. He echoes here,” River taps her temple, “and here” – this last is accompanied by a thin, delicate hand pressed against the wall of the bunk. “He taught me to fly, showed me how to help Serenity, now that he’s gone. I thought the same would work here, too. I can be quiet." Suiting action to words, the girl pitches her voice low, almost pleading, and all too solemn. "You won’t even know I’m here. It can just be you and him, if you close your eyes.”

It goes against all logic, all reason, and Zoe is nothing if not reasonable, while River is undeniably crazy most of the time. But there is something in the earnest, open way she looks up at Zoe, now, and it’s familiar in the same way so many of her expressions have been tonight. Against all professionalism, all training, every wall that habitually stands between her and the rest of the crew these days, Zoe can’t force herself to disagree. It’s easier this way. Indulge her mood, just let her work it out on her own. She’ll be back to whatever passes for normal by morning, most like. She pretends not to recognize whatever that last sentence might have meant, though she's pretty sure from the solemn gleam in River's eyes that it wasn't an accidental turn of phrase.

She sits down next to River on the edge of the bunk, and lets the girl lean her head on her shoulder, pretends she doesn’t feel the warm tears that soak through the shoulder of her tunic or the thin arms that wrap around her, and she’s not sure anymore whether she’s falling into habits of mother or lover when she rubs the girl’s back. She can practically count the girls bones – vertebrae, ribs, scapulae, all through thin fabric and thinner flesh, and the feeling melds with memories of a kitten her mother brought home for her when she was small, and more recent memories of a much firmer, more solid back that her fingers loved to play across at night.

“Just tonight,” she says firmly, and the face against her shoulder nods, but already she guesses that they’ll have the same conversation tomorrow, and the night after, and she wonders which of them will give in first, who will end up winning the long battle between two stubborn wills. She can’t resist thinking that if River’s telling the truth, she’ll never be able to win against both their stubborn natures put together. After the lights are dampened it’s a strange relief to have a warm body curled up against hers, even if the hands that curl in her hair are entirely different, unfamiliar, and they both sigh. For a moment, there is peace.

It’s not normal, it’s hardly right and probably not a good idea in the slightest sense, but for tonight she doesn’t want to turn away even this most twisted of hopes. It won’t change anything, but it’s been too long since she’s felt anything at all, and even if this is madness, it’s a sweet kind.

For tonight, that will do.


3. October Project - Funeral In His Heart
He had a dream haunting him at night;
It would fly into his hands, so he tried to cage it
But he only made it fly away.


He never meant to dream about her - it seemed indecent, and it sure as hell didn't make it easier to talk to her the next morning. She'd swish into the kitchen with her tea and trailing the barest hint of that sandalwood incense her shuttle is full of, and his brain just kind of shuts off from the present, heads right back to all sorts of unrealistic hopes it'd spun the night before.

Sometimes he thinks she can tell. He wouldn't put it past her, with all that damned training.

Maybe that's why she left. It can't have been a hell of a lot more amusing for her to watch him than for him to feel it, and on the days when he's feeling either optimistic or especially bitter, he tells himself that she felt it, too. Sure as hell didn't show it like he's sure he did, though. She never let him get a handle on her, and that he's sure was part of her training. Can't let the man across the table see your cards. In that knowledge they are the same.

When he's honest with himself, he knows it wasn't the damned dreams or even the fact that she could tell he was thinking about her that made her leave. It was his feeling like he needed to be honest, feeling like he needed her to understand, that was just too much for her. Telling her made his feelings into a cage, and if there's one thing he's figured out about Inara, it's that she hates to be bounded.

He remembers once when he was about five, he'd caught a snake in the grass outside the barn - no poison, just a grass snake of some kind, but a real pretty one, and he'd wanted to keep it as a pet. There were plenty of mice, so no reason he couldn't, right? He still feels a little stupid remembering how he begged his mama, and she'd shook her head and finally told him that some things just weren't meant to be in cages, no matter how pretty they were. "Ain't for us to keep 'em," she'd said. "We can look, but God didn't make 'em for humans to own. They aren't like dogs and cats, they gotta be free."

Under his mama's watchful eye, he'd let the snake go and sighed a little as it slide quick as a flash of lightning through the grass. He thought he understood then, but it took standing in the empty shuttle after Inara'd left for him to really get what his mama'd meant all those years ago. Some things, a man just ain't meant to have.

Funny thing, though - that snake never came back to the house. He smiles a little weakly at Inara, and his heart jumps a little when she sits down next to him and her chair edges maybe just a bit closer than it should. Some things a man ain’t meant to have, but the only way to find out is to keep trying.


4. La Vie Boheme - RENT
To going against the grain,
Going insane, going mad -
To loving tension, no pension...

I'm not totally happy with this one, but such is life.


“Can’t catch me! Can’t catch me!”

River moved as though trying to live up to her namesake - swift and bubbling, it seemed that nothing could dam up her energy. She and Kaylee would both be exhausted when they gave up, and Simon and Inara watched them, laughing in their quiet, polite way. Their pleasure in the moment was almost indecent, entirely alive and improper, and Inara found herself jealous of the girls’ complete lack of inhibitions. Freedom raced past her, giggling and shouting half-meant threats of tickling and stealing away a share of the fruit bought with the money from their last take. She glanced at Simon to check his reaction, and found his smile wistful, but honestly happy - something more and more common from him, these days. He was most at his ease watching River express her joy. When River was happy, he could be the same.

Kaylee didn’t have the grace that smoothed River’s every movement - her boots landed heavily, sometimes, others she almost tripped over the edge of a landing or something, but her laughter was wild and so completely at ease, her face so bright and open and flushed that Simon forgot everything else. He reached out and caught her into a hug for a minute, letting River get a few seconds more of a lead in their endless, snaking chase through the ship. Kaylee shrieked and shoved against him, but was laughing too hard to really do any damage with half-teasing pummels against his shoulder. “Let go! You’re cheating!

Simon laughed. “How can I cheat - I’m not playing the game?”

“You’re gonna lose, River, ‘cause your brother’s cheating for you!” Kaylee was laughing too hard for her words to be clear, but a high giggle from the hallway indicated the general idea had gotten across.

Beneath the catwalk, Book glanced up to watch the epic struggle and smiled. “Seems those two might’ve gotten a few things figured out.”

“Took ‘im long enough.” Jayne huffed, pushing another few reps out of the barbell before he passed to the preacher. “For a doctor, he ain’t that bright.”

Book smiled indulgently. “Oh, there’s all sorts of intelligence. And I believe our young doctor is getting a handle on a few of them, as we speak.”

“You two gonna be done jawing at the iron ‘fore we make landfall?”

“We’re nearly finished here,” Book assured the captain as he settled onto the bench.

“Preacher here’s gettin’ too old to take too many reps.” Jayne grinned, flexing his own impressive bicep as if for comparison. Mal looked from one to the other, Jayne following his glance, but he was a bit more disturbed at the similarity than the difference. Book’s arm had more slim sinew than bulk, but tactics made him dislike the fact that he guessed them a fairly even match.

“Still young enough to keep pace with you.” Book laughed, but his eyes were settled firmly on Mal’s. He knew only too well what the captain had been thinking.

“Let’s not put that to the test,” Mal suggested lightly as he headed up the stairs to the catwalk. “I’d hate to explain the outcome, either way.”

“What outcome?”

“Jayne, you causin’ trouble again?”

Mal smiled at Wash and Zoe as they headed in the opposite direction as him, walking down toward the cargo bay with their hands twined and, he noticed, hair quite a bit disheveled. I don’t want to know, he told himself. “Just tellin’ the shepherd I don’t want him testing his strength against Jayne. Last thing we need is to be short a cook… or a mercenary.”

“Might be interesting, sir.” Zoe’s eyes glittered with her usual dry humor. “Get them to wait til we make landfall, we could sell tickets.”

“Can I commentate if we do? I could do some really great commentating, especially if Shepherd Book gets in a few good punches.” Wash is practically glowing, his skin pink and shiny, and Mal doesn’t like much to think how that happened.

“I’ll take it under consideration.”

“Good way to get some extra cash,” Wash agreed before tugging his wife’s hand, and Mal laughed. So long as the mental images stayed away, he’s happy for them. He turned away and continued upward as their quiet conversation moved away.

At the top of the stairs, Inara smirked at Mal. “Selling off the crew for extra commission, now?”

“Seems to work well for you.” As he expected, her eyes tighten and her lips press together. The tension wrapped around them, and Mal savored it for a moment. It might be awkward, and he might hate how she looks at him, but it’s easier than the twisting pain when they’re honest, when he remembers that he wants her and can’t have her, that she wants him but won’t let go.

“You might find that your skills as a businessman aren’t quite up to it,” Inara snapped.

And the descent begins. Insults and tired arguments rehashed, it won’t ever end. At least Mal hoped it wouldn’t.

From a perch high above them, where thank heaven no one had yet noticed she’d tucked herself, hiding from Kaylee, River smiled. “I know you,” she whispered, and pointed at each in turn. “Thief and king, queen and whore, hero and traitor, shepherd and crook, pilot and jester, soldier and wife.” And she tucked her feet under her and watched.


5. Good Time - Counting Crows
You wish that you could tell him it'll be okay,
but you feel a little shy these days,
'cause everybody goes away.


Old habits and ingrained practice clothed Inara's mind in a swath of silken calm as she knelt in front of the small shrine she'd reconstructed in the spare crew quarters. She claimed it was a temporary arrangement - that she was only visiting, only staying to see everyone through this difficult time, only, only... only lying to herself. With every passing day she felt knew she was less likely to return to the training house.

She had waved Sheydra to inform the other woman that she was safe and would be taking a leave of absence, and the other woman had smiled, infuriatingly serene, and asked whether Inara would like her belongings shipped to her, care of Captain Reynolds. In the brief battle between annoyed embarassment and practicality, the desire for more possessions than those in the abandoned trunk on Serenity had won out. The letter Sheydra had included with the crate, which they'd picked up not two days ago, had indicated by its subtle amusement that Sheydra fully expected Inara to stay. She'd been insulted by the implication, and disturbed by the moment of panicked desire for flight that it kindled.

Have I fallen so far, that I would truly run from a joke? Or abandon my friends in a time like this? Merciful Kwan Yin, grant me strength...

Prayer and meditation had calmed that first terror, but she'd felt its bite many times since. It was in the realization that she couldn't bear to disappoint Kaylee by slipping back to her borrowed quarters to take her meals in private, and hidden in the lulls of a peaceful conversation with Simon while they watched River dance in the cargo bay, every day growing more confident, more serene, the haunted look giving way to a sad but wise expression of sanity and self-knowledge. It clutched at her chest and curled up in her stomach when she watched Zoe do her work, precise, professional, and cold with the lack of exactly what Inara feared.

Four sticks of incense, one for each beloved friend lost in the past year and one last for the sorrows of the living, settled upright in a cup of sand and small stones. She lit each and watched fingers of smoke rise toward the top of the shuttle, trying as she'd been taught to let her worries rise away with the smoke. The practice was only slightly hampered by the knowledge that, like the smoke, they wouldn't be going far in the confines of the passenger dorm.

In moments like this, when the panic faded into practiced reason and open thought, she wondered what frightened her more - the dispassionate chill that had overtaken Zoe's fire, or the fact that she recognized that she'd begun to recognize something of that stillness in her own heart. She'd thought she was protecting herself, before - holding the others, especially Mal, at arms-length out of fear of losing herself in her feelings for them - but everything that had happened since the government operative appeared at the training house had shown all too clearly that the threads that bound her to them had been tied long ago. There was a line between guarding against unnecessary pain and closing herself off from life, between avoiding attachment and a futile battle against fate.

These question and others were the sort of doubt that Shepherd Book would have understood well, the sort that Wash would have answered with his usual humor and earthy common sense, had she ever found the courage to speak to either of them about it. The loss of both men settles over her more heavily than before, seeming to carry the weight of Serenity and her precious human cargo atop, crushing into her shoulders until grief bows her to the floor, bent in tears before her altar.

She didn't hear the sound of boots approaching until the door of her passenger room slid open, and by then it was too late to do anything more than lift her head and stare dispassionately at Mal, unsurprised by his typically ill-timed intrusion. Even indignation failed her - she was too worn with emotion to be ashamed of the tears falling down her cheeks.

"'Nara, I..." Mal faltered, then looked away, focusing his attention on a piece of fabric she'd draped on the wall. "Thought you should know, we'll be settin' down on Angel in a few hours. Thought you might... Figured you'd want to know. In case you had... stuff, to do. When we get there."

Inara took in a breath and let it out in a slow sigh. "Thank you."

"You, uh..." He glanced her way again, blue eyes casting over her face, her loose hair, the simple robe that she wore, the lack of makeup. Habit made her note that her eyes must be puffy and red, but pride kept her from showing concern about it. This wasn't a client. This was Malcolm Reynolds. She didn't need to impress him.

Denial made her refuse to admit that this made it all the worse.

Part of her wanted to revel in the way she'd finally made him as obviously, miserably uncomfortable as he often made her, but empathy and mercy were the highest virtues instilled in a companion. She stood and smoothed her hands over her robe to calm herself. "I'm fine, Mal. I'm afraid you caught me at a bad moment - I was just praying for the departed."

"That..." He's on the verge of saying something rude, she can tell, but then the spirit seems to go out of him and he just nods. "Ought'a pray for the living, while you're at it."

"I always do."

He shifts in that awkward way that means he's thinking something honest, thinking of telling her the truth, and he doesn't know whether or not he wants to. When he finally speaks, it's with the tone of a challenge. "Even me?"

She's too tired to lie. "Every day."

"S'pose I need it. All of this... It's gonna get worse before it gets better. I've been down this road before, it ain't... Won't be pretty."

Inara sighs, but looks away from him. She wants to tell him it'll work out, it'll solve itself, he doesn't need to get involved. He already gave himself to one war, already lost more than anyone should. More friends, more of his own soul. He doesn't have enough left to spare to throw himself into another war that can't be won, and if he can just be made to understand that and stand aside, maybe it won't take him. But isn't that what Book did? The shepherd moved out of the war, left behind whatever dark past he'd had, ran away from the shadow that living on Serenity was waking in him, and still the war found him, destroyed all his hope and the people he'd hoped to shelter and lead. And what about Wash? He had never been a party to war, had argued against violence at every turn during his time on Serenity.

"I know it will."

He sits on the edge of the chaise near her. "You weren't wrong to leave. Should'a gone back there already, 'Nara. It ain't safe here."

"It wasn't safe there, either, Mal. The operative proved that."

"Go back to Sihnon. You'd be safe there, wouldn't you?"

She just looks at him, and his face falls as he remembers that none of them know why she left, why she's never gone home even for the shortest of visits. She waits until that memory sinks into his mind and watches the way his eyes soften, sad and tired. He's right, she could leave. Should leave, even, and she knows it. Every moment she stays on board there's the temptation, the itching in her fingertips, the need to run away before she's caught in the warm opium-embrace of this family, before the calm shatters again with the death of another friend and she bleeds with the wounds left by all the places she's connected to these people as they're torn away. If she leaves, she might never hear of it when they all die, and she's sickened to feel slightly comforted by that thought.

"I don't know, Mal. I need more time."

He nods slowly, but she can see that it's hurting him to let it go. His expression closes off again, and she recognizes the man of business and war, the one who'd rather insult her than sit peacefully and feel the ache between them. "You let me know, once you've made up your mind."

Someday, if she waits too long, that will be all she'll see. There was a time when she was waiting for exactly that, but now she's not sure she could live with it. "I will."

Comments

[reve-lucide.livejournal.com]

Oh so much new fic from rivendellrose! How happy that makes me!

I'm at work and supposed to be working, but since we've been chatting all day, I think you know how much (little) of that I've actually been doing, so I'll have to bookmark this to read when I get home tonight.

However, #2 caught my eye and I did read it ... and I loved it. It's so beautiful and you write Zoe so well, but I've told you that before. I absolutely love that River still feels Wash everywhere, and that Zoe keeps in mind that River will most likely experience the end of her life as well, if that's what she chooses to do. Just lovely. I'm sure the others are great as well ... I'll get to them, I promise.

And, because River still being aware of Wash's presence in your story reminded me so much of something I read the other day, I've got to rec it for you. Here.

[rivendellrose.livejournal.com]

*Laughs* I'm at work, too - thank goodness it's been quiet the last few hours so I was able to finally get these darned things finished!

And I'm so glad you liked #2. The idea's been bugging me for a long time, but every time I tried to write it something would go wrong, to the point where when I told my roommates that I was still trying to write "the Bad Fic" they knew exactly what I meant. It started out as a reference to me feeling guilty over the pairing-ish quality (as one of my roommates says about her own fandom "I'm breaking up my own OTP!"), eventually just became my way of saying "damned thing won't let me finish it!!!"

Oooo, rec! *Bounces off to read*

[rivendellrose.livejournal.com]

Wow. I actually got dizzy off that fic - it's sooo well-written, and so creepy and strange, but oddly beautiful at the same time.

[reve-lucide.livejournal.com]

Yeah, it's pretty damn amazing. I'd love to be able to write that well ... it seems like each and every word was chosen so specifically and carefully, but the sentences flow like they were just scribbled down as they came out. Very interesting.

[rivendellrose.livejournal.com]

That's exactly it, yes! I'd love to be able to do that, too... it's amazing how some people have that knack.

[reve-lucide.livejournal.com]

Yeah ... too bad I'm not one of them, LOL.

[rivendellrose.livejournal.com]

Eh, me either - I know just enough to appreciate a master when I see one, and enough to be very wistful when that happens. ;)

[narsilion.livejournal.com]

Amazing fic, I love them all so much though I have to admit to a
special feeling for #2. It was absolutely perfect! You do Firefly
fic so perfectly.

[rivendellrose.livejournal.com]

Whoops, how did I miss this comment for so long? I'm sorry!

I'm glad you liked these, especially #2 - you know how long I've been working on it, and I really wanted to do the idea and feeling I had for it justice. *g*

[reve-lucide.livejournal.com]

Wow.

I finally got around to reading the rest of these, and I have to say, I absolutely **love** #3. So short, and yet it contains so much. And the snake! My heart hurts for poor little 10-year-old Mal as well as poor grown-up Mal.

Very nicely done.

[rivendellrose.livejournal.com]

Thanks! I'm glad you liked that one - I felt kind of bad about putting two Mal/Inara fics into the same collection, but both songs were way too perfect for them for me to resist. And yeah... poor Mal. Poor guy just can't catch a break, it seems like. But I do love to give him a little bit to hope for. ;)

Thanks so much for taking the time to read them all!

[hermionesviolin.livejournal.com]

Oh, I love #3. (And it's interesting to envision Inara with such a dangerous metaphor.)

And the evocativeness of #5. I have a definite weakness for incense/prayers/religion as well as backstory in Inara-fic. And "If she leaves, she might never hear of it when they all die, and she's sickened to feel slightly comforted by that thought." is such a powerful line.

[rivendellrose.livejournal.com]

I never really considered the imagery of a snake as being a dangerous metaphor - if I had to pin some symbolic reference on that story, I'd have pointed toward snakes as a goddess symbol. Although maybe the image of the serpent in Eden is a valid analogy, too, given Inara's occupation and her relationship with Mal. She certainly is a temptation to him. ;)

But really I was probably just trying to think of some kind of wild animal little Mal might've wanted to keep as a pet.

I love anything that brings the daily details of life into a story, and moments of spiritual practice and contemplation are such an important part of who Inara is. I'm glad you liked it, and especially that you liked that last line you mentioned - I was very worried about whether I could explain that properly.

[hermionesviolin.livejournal.com]

Going back to the ficlet I see "no poison, just a grass snake of some kind, but a real pretty one" which my eyes apparently glossed over when I first read it. It seemed a little weird to me to associate Inara with such a dangerous animal but that was entirely how I read the snake comparison -- I'm thinking The Jungle Book was a formative influence on me. I'm such a bad English major/religion geek that I didn't think of the Eden serpent thing, though :)