"Surefire" (Firefly, Mal/River, 1/1)
Jun. 7th, 2007 06:22 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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whiskeycoffeeTitle: Surefire
Author: m.jules
Pairing: Mal/River centric.
Disclaimer: These guys belong to Joss; I’m just playing with them ‘cause I can.
Summary: A series of possible events leading up to the dance/shootout scene in “Safe”.
Notes: I shouldn't be posting this yet, because I wrote it in 45 minutes and I'm tired and nobody else has even looked at it and it's kind of stream-of-consciousness but probably not nearly that cool... so, you guys, consider yourself my betas. Tell me what works for you and what doesn't, and we'll see where it goes from there.
Notes The Second: This is a repost of my very first Firefly fic. It was brought to my attention that the original post (made on March 23, 2005) had been locked in my personal journal. It's here now. :)
”Not him.”
She’d said it when he came into the infirmary where she was, petulantly, like a child. She felt the part of a child today, looked the part of a child’s doll. There were too many thoughts in the air, too many confusions from the creatures in the hold who didn’t know what they were anymore. Their loss of self-image, their fear and nothingness, burned into her head and she wasn’t going to have any of Simon’s gorram tests making it worse, no rutting way. She was more lucid than she appeared, but she knew what her brother thought of her, knew the one surefire (sure-fire, surefire: a colloquialism referring to the inner mechanisms of a gun, meaning that something is unfailingly reliable... like Vera, if Jayne’s thoughts are to be trusted) way to make him leave her alone was to act crazy.
She was crazy sometimes, but sometimes it was just something she did when she got tired of being sane.
And he always knew the difference. He was the one who could read past her games -- he could read the reader -- and he was the only one she could never manipulate. Mal. Bad. She was in his head and he knew it; she stayed there all the time, a tiny presence he rarely felt. She knew he knew about her; knew, too, that he was keeping her secret. She didn’t know why, but she hated the feeling of power he had over her because he knew what no one else knew. She didn’t know when he’d tell, but she was afraid he’d use that against her.
They had. They always used everything against her.
Do what I want, or...
Mal hadn’t been like that; she’d gone into his head the first time by accident -- it had been so open, so startled-inviting with surprise, the first time he’d seen her. There’d been warmth there, unexpected protectiveness, and honor like the steel blade of a sword, like the heavy comfort of a gun in her hand. Surefire. Mal was surefire.
The second time had been because she wanted to know if he was going to let them stay or if he would take the safe way out, leave them on some dusty moon. They (which they?) said life was full of surprises, but she was minimizing the number of them in her life. She didn’t need any more things she didn’t expect.
She didn’t expect him. Didn’t expect the patience he felt towards her, the matter-of-factness where her brother was so cautious, so gorram careful with her all the time that she felt more broken than she really was. She felt like she’d never get put back together when Simon was with her -- all the emotions, all the thoughts in his head, the sheer hopelessness -- they infected her. But she loved him anyway, because he was her brother. She just couldn’t take it all the time, couldn’t always be that strong.
She stayed in his head because he was stronger than she was in his belief in her. She would be fine; she would get better. She already was better, and she hadn’t been hopeless to begin with. He treated her like she was already well, and it made her feel well.
She remembered the time she’d found him in the galley, in the middle of the night. He was tortured by his own private demons, his fears, his worries and analyses over his crew. She was haunted by images in the night that wouldn’t be tamed. He’d looked up to see her in the doorway, said quietly, “No games.”
She’d nodded. “No games.” Held up her hand in a solemn oath and he’d not-quite-smiled.
She sat silently across from him at the table, hands folded the same way his were, pressed together in a pose of prayer -- but he left prayer to the Shepherd. His mind was better occupied with the tangible than the ethereal; and now both were sitting across from him.
“What are you doin’ awake, little girl?”
“Not so little,” she’d protested, ignoring his question. She didn’t want to think about the things that kept her awake. He understood -- she felt it. “I’m eighteen. Almost nineteen.” Her forehead had wrinkled deeply with distress. “...I think.”
He’d been mildly surprised -- his face hadn’t shown it, but he projected clearly -- and made an acknowledging sound. She knew she seemed younger; knew that it was in the way she walked, the wideness of her eyes, the uncertainty and brokenness and tiny-little-voices she used and that used her.
They’d sat in silence a while longer, each stumbling through their own darkness, deeper than the space outside Serenity, until finally she’d caught a rogue thought-pattern from him that bounced off the walls of her brain like a free radical.
Her eyes had gone to his and narrowed as she’d said firmly, “No games, Malcolm Reynolds.”
He’d shaken his head, somehow knowing what she’d seen, what she’d heard and felt from him. “Not a game, little River,” he’d said quietly. “Just the way things are. The way they’re gonna be for a little while longer.”
She’d accepted it; she was fine, she was okay. But having him around felt like a game, because she knew what was in his head and she knew the way he acted was honest to him but not to anyone else. Not to Simon, not to Inara, not to Wash and Zoe and Jayne and Kaylee. Honest to her, but only because he couldn’t help that. She didn’t like the game, didn’t like the way it was played.
She wasn’t in control of this game, couldn’t boss him around, couldn’t change the scenery on him the way she did with Simon. He was safe because of that; because he couldn’t be changed where she was concerned. Not by her, not by anyone. Not by Alliance or Simon or the two-by-two’s with their cruel blue hands.
He was a safe place to her, safer than she’d ever thought she’d find, and she loved Simon for bringing her to him. Because nowhere was as safe as in Mal Reynolds' mind. No games.
She was there when she heard the music, there when he heard the first gunshots, and the exhilaration was the same for them both. The kick of her heels, the swish of that rutting pink dress (and Mal thought the same thing she did -- paperdoll, painted to look like a normal person, Simon trying to make her look like his little sister again), the strength of a man’s hand on her waist and the motion of the music is to her as the sudden flash and fire and ricochet of bullets, or what passes for them, the dust and the rolling and the shouting and the knowledge of cheating fate again is to him.
His joy, the grim delight of flesh and bone and spittle and dust, spins into her and she keeps her mind in his, feeling the fight in her feet as she twirls, giving back to him the grace and lightness that spin within her. Higher and better and --
---falling, falling, falling he falters and she stumbles and it is his eyes that see and her heart that stops and there is blood, so much blood and the Book is lying on the ground with its pages ripped out and can they put him back together? Is the spine bent irreversibly forever?
She cannot feel the Shepherd’s mind -- it is retreating.
Find Simon.
In the turmoil, she cannot tell if it is his thought or hers, and the pieces of her mind are spinning crazily out of time and frame and synchronicity again. Find Simon. So she finds him, and she is pleased, and she tries to show it through her mind -- See, I found him! -- but her captain (O Captain, my Captain!) is distant.
She isn’t afraid. She knows Simon is; she can feel it. But she has been in Mal’s mind and she knows where he will go. He is her safe place and he won’t play that game with her: the Book has to be restitched, rebound, recovered and Simon cannot be found and she is too broken to tell him how to find them.
Everything will be all right until they get back. And he will come for them, because he is her safe place and his honor is validated by the way she stays inside his mind, the way she isn’t frightened by him, the way she knows his brand of honesty is his. He likes that she knows him; he won’t leave them there.
No power in the ‘verse is gonna stop that ship from coming back for them, because Simon needs his safe place (Post holer. For digging holes. For posts.) just like she needs hers (Is it a bad thing that what she said made perfect sense to me?). Mal won’t take Kaylee’s little refugee from her and he won’t deny sanctuary to the running River. That’s just the way life works inside his head. Plain and simple. Surefire.
The End
Author: m.jules
Pairing: Mal/River centric.
Disclaimer: These guys belong to Joss; I’m just playing with them ‘cause I can.
Summary: A series of possible events leading up to the dance/shootout scene in “Safe”.
Notes: I shouldn't be posting this yet, because I wrote it in 45 minutes and I'm tired and nobody else has even looked at it and it's kind of stream-of-consciousness but probably not nearly that cool... so, you guys, consider yourself my betas. Tell me what works for you and what doesn't, and we'll see where it goes from there.
Notes The Second: This is a repost of my very first Firefly fic. It was brought to my attention that the original post (made on March 23, 2005) had been locked in my personal journal. It's here now. :)
”Not him.”
She’d said it when he came into the infirmary where she was, petulantly, like a child. She felt the part of a child today, looked the part of a child’s doll. There were too many thoughts in the air, too many confusions from the creatures in the hold who didn’t know what they were anymore. Their loss of self-image, their fear and nothingness, burned into her head and she wasn’t going to have any of Simon’s gorram tests making it worse, no rutting way. She was more lucid than she appeared, but she knew what her brother thought of her, knew the one surefire (sure-fire, surefire: a colloquialism referring to the inner mechanisms of a gun, meaning that something is unfailingly reliable... like Vera, if Jayne’s thoughts are to be trusted) way to make him leave her alone was to act crazy.
She was crazy sometimes, but sometimes it was just something she did when she got tired of being sane.
And he always knew the difference. He was the one who could read past her games -- he could read the reader -- and he was the only one she could never manipulate. Mal. Bad. She was in his head and he knew it; she stayed there all the time, a tiny presence he rarely felt. She knew he knew about her; knew, too, that he was keeping her secret. She didn’t know why, but she hated the feeling of power he had over her because he knew what no one else knew. She didn’t know when he’d tell, but she was afraid he’d use that against her.
They had. They always used everything against her.
Do what I want, or...
Mal hadn’t been like that; she’d gone into his head the first time by accident -- it had been so open, so startled-inviting with surprise, the first time he’d seen her. There’d been warmth there, unexpected protectiveness, and honor like the steel blade of a sword, like the heavy comfort of a gun in her hand. Surefire. Mal was surefire.
The second time had been because she wanted to know if he was going to let them stay or if he would take the safe way out, leave them on some dusty moon. They (which they?) said life was full of surprises, but she was minimizing the number of them in her life. She didn’t need any more things she didn’t expect.
She didn’t expect him. Didn’t expect the patience he felt towards her, the matter-of-factness where her brother was so cautious, so gorram careful with her all the time that she felt more broken than she really was. She felt like she’d never get put back together when Simon was with her -- all the emotions, all the thoughts in his head, the sheer hopelessness -- they infected her. But she loved him anyway, because he was her brother. She just couldn’t take it all the time, couldn’t always be that strong.
She stayed in his head because he was stronger than she was in his belief in her. She would be fine; she would get better. She already was better, and she hadn’t been hopeless to begin with. He treated her like she was already well, and it made her feel well.
She remembered the time she’d found him in the galley, in the middle of the night. He was tortured by his own private demons, his fears, his worries and analyses over his crew. She was haunted by images in the night that wouldn’t be tamed. He’d looked up to see her in the doorway, said quietly, “No games.”
She’d nodded. “No games.” Held up her hand in a solemn oath and he’d not-quite-smiled.
She sat silently across from him at the table, hands folded the same way his were, pressed together in a pose of prayer -- but he left prayer to the Shepherd. His mind was better occupied with the tangible than the ethereal; and now both were sitting across from him.
“What are you doin’ awake, little girl?”
“Not so little,” she’d protested, ignoring his question. She didn’t want to think about the things that kept her awake. He understood -- she felt it. “I’m eighteen. Almost nineteen.” Her forehead had wrinkled deeply with distress. “...I think.”
He’d been mildly surprised -- his face hadn’t shown it, but he projected clearly -- and made an acknowledging sound. She knew she seemed younger; knew that it was in the way she walked, the wideness of her eyes, the uncertainty and brokenness and tiny-little-voices she used and that used her.
They’d sat in silence a while longer, each stumbling through their own darkness, deeper than the space outside Serenity, until finally she’d caught a rogue thought-pattern from him that bounced off the walls of her brain like a free radical.
Her eyes had gone to his and narrowed as she’d said firmly, “No games, Malcolm Reynolds.”
He’d shaken his head, somehow knowing what she’d seen, what she’d heard and felt from him. “Not a game, little River,” he’d said quietly. “Just the way things are. The way they’re gonna be for a little while longer.”
She’d accepted it; she was fine, she was okay. But having him around felt like a game, because she knew what was in his head and she knew the way he acted was honest to him but not to anyone else. Not to Simon, not to Inara, not to Wash and Zoe and Jayne and Kaylee. Honest to her, but only because he couldn’t help that. She didn’t like the game, didn’t like the way it was played.
She wasn’t in control of this game, couldn’t boss him around, couldn’t change the scenery on him the way she did with Simon. He was safe because of that; because he couldn’t be changed where she was concerned. Not by her, not by anyone. Not by Alliance or Simon or the two-by-two’s with their cruel blue hands.
He was a safe place to her, safer than she’d ever thought she’d find, and she loved Simon for bringing her to him. Because nowhere was as safe as in Mal Reynolds' mind. No games.
She was there when she heard the music, there when he heard the first gunshots, and the exhilaration was the same for them both. The kick of her heels, the swish of that rutting pink dress (and Mal thought the same thing she did -- paperdoll, painted to look like a normal person, Simon trying to make her look like his little sister again), the strength of a man’s hand on her waist and the motion of the music is to her as the sudden flash and fire and ricochet of bullets, or what passes for them, the dust and the rolling and the shouting and the knowledge of cheating fate again is to him.
His joy, the grim delight of flesh and bone and spittle and dust, spins into her and she keeps her mind in his, feeling the fight in her feet as she twirls, giving back to him the grace and lightness that spin within her. Higher and better and --
---falling, falling, falling he falters and she stumbles and it is his eyes that see and her heart that stops and there is blood, so much blood and the Book is lying on the ground with its pages ripped out and can they put him back together? Is the spine bent irreversibly forever?
She cannot feel the Shepherd’s mind -- it is retreating.
Find Simon.
In the turmoil, she cannot tell if it is his thought or hers, and the pieces of her mind are spinning crazily out of time and frame and synchronicity again. Find Simon. So she finds him, and she is pleased, and she tries to show it through her mind -- See, I found him! -- but her captain (O Captain, my Captain!) is distant.
She isn’t afraid. She knows Simon is; she can feel it. But she has been in Mal’s mind and she knows where he will go. He is her safe place and he won’t play that game with her: the Book has to be restitched, rebound, recovered and Simon cannot be found and she is too broken to tell him how to find them.
Everything will be all right until they get back. And he will come for them, because he is her safe place and his honor is validated by the way she stays inside his mind, the way she isn’t frightened by him, the way she knows his brand of honesty is his. He likes that she knows him; he won’t leave them there.
No power in the ‘verse is gonna stop that ship from coming back for them, because Simon needs his safe place (Post holer. For digging holes. For posts.) just like she needs hers (Is it a bad thing that what she said made perfect sense to me?). Mal won’t take Kaylee’s little refugee from her and he won’t deny sanctuary to the running River. That’s just the way life works inside his head. Plain and simple. Surefire.
The End
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2007-06-08 12:41 am (UTC)Thank you for sharing it with those of us who had not read it before.
no subject
Date: 2008-10-09 05:39 pm (UTC)thanks muchly.
Frannie