fic, original: hi-ho, silver spaceship, away!
Title: Hi-ho silver spaceship, away!
Rating: PG-13 (swearing. gosh that feels weird on the internet.)
Summary: The space cowboy and the doctor, lots of swagger all over the place. Written for rachelmorph for her bid on help_haiti. (And affectingly, close your eyes and pretend it's AU Jim/Bones. HA HA.)
"Some people call me Maurice," a voice said.
Scopes raised a wobbly head from his sixth round of Sxathian Supernovas and glared at the man across from him.
He looked like a typical star rider: scarf around his neck, brown leather duster patched and repaired, and suspenders with antique alumicron buckles. His hat was tipped back to reveal a young, striking face, blue eyes, and perfect two millimeter stubble over his strong jaw. He had his fingers hooked in his front belt loops, his hips and lips tilted at the same cocky angle.
"Uh huh," Scopes said, glancing up and down and hoping his face conveyed how thoroughly unimpressed he was. If you seen one star ridin' cowboy, you seen 'em all. "S'pose they call you the gangster of love, too."
The man snorted and sat down, grasping the chair and spinning it around. He straddled it like it was a horse, folding his arms and resting them along the top. "A student of the classics. I like that."
"Nah," Scopes said, knocking back another shot. "This place just has a shitty retro jukebox. There something I can help you with, cowboy?"
The man grinned, and it was the kinda grin that grated on a man like Scopes' last nerve, a real asshole grin, like the bastard always got what he wanted and the universe was his to take. "Maybe. I'm hoping," the man said. He ran a tongue over his perfect, white teeth and gave Scopes his own once over.
Scopes pressed the cool shot glass to his forehead and took a deep breath. He was so damn tired of these punk kids. They thought a flashy outfit and a brand new ship made 'em space cowboys, rough riders and outlaws, deep space showdowns, synthesized whiskey at shitty star saloons, and damn the world.
Scopes had been there. He'd been there a long time. And there were nights he wanted to forget that.
"Listen, pal," he said. "I'm not in the mood. Any other night, maybe I'd take you back to my cabin and give you a spin around the galaxy, but not tonight. Rocket on outta hear, get me?"
The man ducked his head, like that'd hide his sudden smile. He looked back up, blue eyes sparkling beneath dark lashes. "See, that's a problem," he said. "I really need to talk to you." And saying that, he flipped back the sides of the long brown duster he wore, showing off four guns in a quad holster. They were Level 4 Sub-Nano lasershooters, if Scopes was any guess.
Goddammit. He hated cowboys.
"Yeah?" Scopes said, motioning to the green-skinned bartender for another. "I ain't a particularly chatty guy."
The man laughed and rolled his coatsleeves back, revealing two top of the line wristbows: deadly little sumbitch lasers on a trigger embedded under the skin. All the bastard had to do was think and the things would shoot, powerful enough to go clear through bone. "You might find your tongue's eager for a workout tonight. My name really is Maurice, by the way."
"Color me shocked. And here I thought it was a line," Scopes drawled. Where the hell was that girl with his damn drink? If he was gonna sit here and be threatened by some young punk, he wanted to do it significantly more liquored up.
"Okay," the man blinked, closing his coat. Didn't bother to roll his sleeves back down, Scopes noticed. "Either you're inhumanly unflappable or you're headed for drunk."
"Give the man a prize," Scopes grumbled, sighing with relief when three beautiful neon yellow glasses of Supernovas appeared at his elbow. "Thanks, doll," he said, slipping a twenty credit note between two generously-shaped green breasts.
"Well, this might be easier than I thought," the man said.
Scopes eyeballed him. Then he took a shot, hoping the man read the fuck you implicit in the gesture. "You wanna tell me why you're so eager to have a conversation, cowboy?"
"Thought you'd never ask. You can call me Reese, by the way. I hear you're Scopes?"
"You hear correct."
"What’s that short for? Microscope? Periscope?"
"Stethoscope," Scopes said flatly. "Like the one I'm gonna shove up your ass if you don't get the hell out of my viewfinder in the next ten seconds."
Reese's eyes narrowed and his hands twitched toward his waist. "You think you could take me, old man?"
Old--! Oh that was it, Scopes thought. He might be on the wrong side of thirty, but he'd be damned if he'd let some fresh-faced space-punk talk to him like he was old Earth issue.
"No, prob'ly not," Scopes said, laying it on thick. "Not alone, at least. However, my two friends behind you might even the odds." He let his eyes flick to the left, slight enough that it looked like he hadn’t really meant to let his eyes wander at all, whoops, and damn if the punk didn't fall for it, turning in his seat just enough so he could judge the danger from his peripheral vision.
Scopes' hand closed around the shot glass rattlesnake-quick and he splashed it in Reese's face, listening with great satisfaction as the man howled and clawed at his eyes.
"Little known fact about Sxathian Supernovas," Scopes said, scooting his chair back and standing up. He cleared his throat and steadied himself on the table. Reese was making an awful lot of racket; people were starting to look over. "They contain an acid that is harmless to the stomach lining but melts the shit outta the delicate mucus membrane covering your eyeballs should you be stupid enough to get any on your face. Have a nice night."
Reese was still writhing on the floor as Scopes stepped over him a little unsteadily and left the station bar.
----
Scopes woke up at gunpoint.
"Well," he said, crossing his eyes so he could focus on the barrel jammed against his forehead. He felt it was unfair of the universe to make him deal with this on top of a hangover.
"You're an asshole," Reese hissed, staring down the laser at Scopes, his teeth gritted in rage. "I had to wait on sick deck for four hours to get my retinas repaired."
"Only four?" Scopes said. "They musta been having a slow night."
Reese's arm trembled. "I -- you're -- I can't -- Fuck!" he exploded. "I dunno whether to shoot you or -- or laugh at you."
"I think we all know what my vote would be," Scopes said, levering himself up. "And if you were gonna shoot me, you woulda done it."
"Smart guy, huh?" Reese sneered.
"Optimistic," Scopes corrected.
Reese snorted and lowered his gun. "Right. Optimistic. Grandpa, you have gotta be the orneriest bastard I ever met. They told me you were a grumpy alcoholic, but they didn't tell me you'd turned it into an artform."
"They?" Scopes said, narrowing his eyes.
Reese flipped his gun through his fingers and holstered it in a fancy move. "They," he intoned, wiggling his fingers and making a spooky noise.
Scopes rolled his eyes. "If you ain't gonna shoot me, kid, what do you want?"
Reese grinned, bright and full of promise. Scopes amended his earlier observation: the kid was cocky, but he wasn't an asshole. He was like a puppy that knew it was gonna grow up to be a motherfucking terrawolf, even though it might not know what a terrawolf was yet. Confidence, shiny and youthful. That's what it was.
Usually, that gave Scopes a headache and had him headed for the nearest bar. This kid, though… it felt like it was catching.
Reese kept on smiling, his blue eyes sharp and excited. "I wanna offer you a job. My ship's the finest in the known galaxy and so is my crew. We need a field medic on our space horse and I heard you were the best. Thought I could talk you into it last night while you were drunk, 'cause I heard you hated leaving the station."
"A job?" Scopes said, scratching his jaw. "Hell. Why didn’t you say so?"
Reese blinked, his mouth hanging open. "Wait -- are you -- are you gonna take it?"
"Might as well," Scopes shrugged. "Got nothing better to do. And something about you tells me you'll definitely need a highly trained medic. You got a look that pisses people off."
"Including you?" Reese asked, clearly amused.
"Damn right," Scopes said.
"Thought you hated leaving the station."
"Oh, I do," Scopes said. But he hated being bored even more. And this space cowboy… there was something about him. Something that made a man feel like taking risks.
"You're a man of few words, aren't you, doctor?"
"Few words, many needles, lots of 'em full of deadly stuff," Scopes agreed. "Keep that in mind."
"I will," Reese said. "And you can call me Captain."
"And you can kiss my ass."
Reese winked. "Play your cards right."
Scopes couldn't help himself. He laughed. He was old and damaged and definitely wrong for this kid, but he had to admire Reese's style. "Son, I'd sooner stick my head out the airlock."
"We'll see," Reese said, that damn grin back.
Rating: PG-13 (swearing. gosh that feels weird on the internet.)
Summary: The space cowboy and the doctor, lots of swagger all over the place. Written for rachelmorph for her bid on help_haiti. (And affectingly, close your eyes and pretend it's AU Jim/Bones. HA HA.)
"Some people call me Maurice," a voice said.
Scopes raised a wobbly head from his sixth round of Sxathian Supernovas and glared at the man across from him.
He looked like a typical star rider: scarf around his neck, brown leather duster patched and repaired, and suspenders with antique alumicron buckles. His hat was tipped back to reveal a young, striking face, blue eyes, and perfect two millimeter stubble over his strong jaw. He had his fingers hooked in his front belt loops, his hips and lips tilted at the same cocky angle.
"Uh huh," Scopes said, glancing up and down and hoping his face conveyed how thoroughly unimpressed he was. If you seen one star ridin' cowboy, you seen 'em all. "S'pose they call you the gangster of love, too."
The man snorted and sat down, grasping the chair and spinning it around. He straddled it like it was a horse, folding his arms and resting them along the top. "A student of the classics. I like that."
"Nah," Scopes said, knocking back another shot. "This place just has a shitty retro jukebox. There something I can help you with, cowboy?"
The man grinned, and it was the kinda grin that grated on a man like Scopes' last nerve, a real asshole grin, like the bastard always got what he wanted and the universe was his to take. "Maybe. I'm hoping," the man said. He ran a tongue over his perfect, white teeth and gave Scopes his own once over.
Scopes pressed the cool shot glass to his forehead and took a deep breath. He was so damn tired of these punk kids. They thought a flashy outfit and a brand new ship made 'em space cowboys, rough riders and outlaws, deep space showdowns, synthesized whiskey at shitty star saloons, and damn the world.
Scopes had been there. He'd been there a long time. And there were nights he wanted to forget that.
"Listen, pal," he said. "I'm not in the mood. Any other night, maybe I'd take you back to my cabin and give you a spin around the galaxy, but not tonight. Rocket on outta hear, get me?"
The man ducked his head, like that'd hide his sudden smile. He looked back up, blue eyes sparkling beneath dark lashes. "See, that's a problem," he said. "I really need to talk to you." And saying that, he flipped back the sides of the long brown duster he wore, showing off four guns in a quad holster. They were Level 4 Sub-Nano lasershooters, if Scopes was any guess.
Goddammit. He hated cowboys.
"Yeah?" Scopes said, motioning to the green-skinned bartender for another. "I ain't a particularly chatty guy."
The man laughed and rolled his coatsleeves back, revealing two top of the line wristbows: deadly little sumbitch lasers on a trigger embedded under the skin. All the bastard had to do was think and the things would shoot, powerful enough to go clear through bone. "You might find your tongue's eager for a workout tonight. My name really is Maurice, by the way."
"Color me shocked. And here I thought it was a line," Scopes drawled. Where the hell was that girl with his damn drink? If he was gonna sit here and be threatened by some young punk, he wanted to do it significantly more liquored up.
"Okay," the man blinked, closing his coat. Didn't bother to roll his sleeves back down, Scopes noticed. "Either you're inhumanly unflappable or you're headed for drunk."
"Give the man a prize," Scopes grumbled, sighing with relief when three beautiful neon yellow glasses of Supernovas appeared at his elbow. "Thanks, doll," he said, slipping a twenty credit note between two generously-shaped green breasts.
"Well, this might be easier than I thought," the man said.
Scopes eyeballed him. Then he took a shot, hoping the man read the fuck you implicit in the gesture. "You wanna tell me why you're so eager to have a conversation, cowboy?"
"Thought you'd never ask. You can call me Reese, by the way. I hear you're Scopes?"
"You hear correct."
"What’s that short for? Microscope? Periscope?"
"Stethoscope," Scopes said flatly. "Like the one I'm gonna shove up your ass if you don't get the hell out of my viewfinder in the next ten seconds."
Reese's eyes narrowed and his hands twitched toward his waist. "You think you could take me, old man?"
Old--! Oh that was it, Scopes thought. He might be on the wrong side of thirty, but he'd be damned if he'd let some fresh-faced space-punk talk to him like he was old Earth issue.
"No, prob'ly not," Scopes said, laying it on thick. "Not alone, at least. However, my two friends behind you might even the odds." He let his eyes flick to the left, slight enough that it looked like he hadn’t really meant to let his eyes wander at all, whoops, and damn if the punk didn't fall for it, turning in his seat just enough so he could judge the danger from his peripheral vision.
Scopes' hand closed around the shot glass rattlesnake-quick and he splashed it in Reese's face, listening with great satisfaction as the man howled and clawed at his eyes.
"Little known fact about Sxathian Supernovas," Scopes said, scooting his chair back and standing up. He cleared his throat and steadied himself on the table. Reese was making an awful lot of racket; people were starting to look over. "They contain an acid that is harmless to the stomach lining but melts the shit outta the delicate mucus membrane covering your eyeballs should you be stupid enough to get any on your face. Have a nice night."
Reese was still writhing on the floor as Scopes stepped over him a little unsteadily and left the station bar.
----
Scopes woke up at gunpoint.
"Well," he said, crossing his eyes so he could focus on the barrel jammed against his forehead. He felt it was unfair of the universe to make him deal with this on top of a hangover.
"You're an asshole," Reese hissed, staring down the laser at Scopes, his teeth gritted in rage. "I had to wait on sick deck for four hours to get my retinas repaired."
"Only four?" Scopes said. "They musta been having a slow night."
Reese's arm trembled. "I -- you're -- I can't -- Fuck!" he exploded. "I dunno whether to shoot you or -- or laugh at you."
"I think we all know what my vote would be," Scopes said, levering himself up. "And if you were gonna shoot me, you woulda done it."
"Smart guy, huh?" Reese sneered.
"Optimistic," Scopes corrected.
Reese snorted and lowered his gun. "Right. Optimistic. Grandpa, you have gotta be the orneriest bastard I ever met. They told me you were a grumpy alcoholic, but they didn't tell me you'd turned it into an artform."
"They?" Scopes said, narrowing his eyes.
Reese flipped his gun through his fingers and holstered it in a fancy move. "They," he intoned, wiggling his fingers and making a spooky noise.
Scopes rolled his eyes. "If you ain't gonna shoot me, kid, what do you want?"
Reese grinned, bright and full of promise. Scopes amended his earlier observation: the kid was cocky, but he wasn't an asshole. He was like a puppy that knew it was gonna grow up to be a motherfucking terrawolf, even though it might not know what a terrawolf was yet. Confidence, shiny and youthful. That's what it was.
Usually, that gave Scopes a headache and had him headed for the nearest bar. This kid, though… it felt like it was catching.
Reese kept on smiling, his blue eyes sharp and excited. "I wanna offer you a job. My ship's the finest in the known galaxy and so is my crew. We need a field medic on our space horse and I heard you were the best. Thought I could talk you into it last night while you were drunk, 'cause I heard you hated leaving the station."
"A job?" Scopes said, scratching his jaw. "Hell. Why didn’t you say so?"
Reese blinked, his mouth hanging open. "Wait -- are you -- are you gonna take it?"
"Might as well," Scopes shrugged. "Got nothing better to do. And something about you tells me you'll definitely need a highly trained medic. You got a look that pisses people off."
"Including you?" Reese asked, clearly amused.
"Damn right," Scopes said.
"Thought you hated leaving the station."
"Oh, I do," Scopes said. But he hated being bored even more. And this space cowboy… there was something about him. Something that made a man feel like taking risks.
"You're a man of few words, aren't you, doctor?"
"Few words, many needles, lots of 'em full of deadly stuff," Scopes agreed. "Keep that in mind."
"I will," Reese said. "And you can call me Captain."
"And you can kiss my ass."
Reese winked. "Play your cards right."
Scopes couldn't help himself. He laughed. He was old and damaged and definitely wrong for this kid, but he had to admire Reese's style. "Son, I'd sooner stick my head out the airlock."
"We'll see," Reese said, that damn grin back.