Firefly - The Bad Things and the Good
Title: The Bad Things and the Good
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: The characters and settings referred to here are not mine. They are Joss's. No infringement is intended and I'm not making any money from this story.
Summary: River can't sleep for the memories.
Author's note: The third ficlet for my 10_hurt_comfort table, the prompt is "Fear". Set after the movie, but closer to it in time, I think, than most of my other fics. Many thanks, as usual, to geek_mama_2 for beta assistance!
The Bad Things and the Good
by Hereswith
She can’t sleep for the memories, can’t close her eyes for the images, her head bursting full of echoes, and the no burns at the back of her throat like bile. This won’t hurt a thing. She scrambles out of the bed, out of her room and through the passages, but the walls seem to rush in on her and the apprehension lingers, lodged in her bones, marrow-deep, she feels wide open and vulnerable, and every hair on her nape stands on end. Strap her down and get the sedatives. Now! Flinching, like the command applies to her, to the present, she stumbles, disoriented, banging side first into metal, and the pain stops her a moment, but then she continues. Fighting only makes it worse, haven’t you learned that? To breathe is an effort, in through her mouth and out through her nose, and she’s in a cold sweat, she knows she’s unhinging, slip slip sliding, but she doesn’t know what to do. Simon would worry so, and the drugs numb her, they change the world to cotton, and she’s improved, cutting down on them, managing without, these are the victories she clings to.
The galley is deserted, but the shadows move and stretch in the empty spaces, and she hesitates, rocking from one foot to the other, hugging her chest. At the sudden noise from the direction of the bridge, her head snaps up. Mal. And she panics, she’s such a blur, such a mess, and he might not let her fly, if he finds out, she has to function like a girl for that, sharp mind and steady hands. The table is nearer than the opposite doorway and she ducks under it, more from instinct than reason, trying to escape his notice.
He enters with a shuffling gait and a loud yawn, and goes to the kitchen area, to make coffee, she suspects, and the sounds that follow confirm it. He’s turned some of the lights on, but it’s not enough to illuminate where she is, to betray her, and she’s grateful. The respite is short-lived, however, for he doesn’t quit the room, when he’s finished, he approaches the table, instead, and takes a seat, almost in front of her. River stares at his boots, his trouser-clad knees, her pulse racing, and makes an attempt to edge further from him, but he extends his leg, and bumps it against her. There’s a startled exclamation, a thud as he puts his mug down, then he bends to check, and she freezes in place.
“River? What the guĭ are you doing?”
She won’t look, won’t look, hopes he’ll go away.
“Do you have any idea how early it is? Should still be in your bunk.”
She won’t speak, won’t speak, hopes he’ll go away.
He’s silent, then says, “I’ll get Simon, if that’s-”
“Don’t want him to see,” she blurts. “Don’t want you to see. I’m not here.”
“Right,” he replies, in a tone concerned and confused. “And just what is it you’re not wanting me to see?”
“Me,” she says, choking on the word. “You won’t trust me with piloting. Clip my wings and tail feathers, too.”
“That’s why you’re hiding?” He shifts, pushing the chair back to crouch next to the table. “You’re a damn fine pilot, darlin’. You’ve proved it countless ways, and I ain’t gonna forget that ‘cause you’re having a bad night.”
He’s sincere, nothing she can sense hints otherwise, and the relief is too much, she’s run too ragged with fear and remembering, and starts to tremble, unable to quell it, gulping down air in dry, hiccuping sobs. Mal mutters a curse and squeezes under to grab hold of her, pulling her out. She hurls herself at him, and he isn’t prepared for it, her weight tips his balance, and they both end up sitting sprawled on the floor. He says her name, twice, but she doesn’t listen, half-claws and clutches to get close, seeking his warmth like a wild creature. There’s calm in the centre of him, shelter in the lee of him, she burrows her face into the crook of his neck, above the T-shirt, where the skin is bare, and he endures the onslaught with awkward gentleness, letting her take what comfort she needs.
When at last she quiets, he says, though not unkindly, “I’d be beholden if you’d ease that death-grip some, else I’ll be powerful bruised.”
Mortified, she complies, but doesn’t completely release him. “Didn’t mean to.”
“Figured you didn’t.” He pats her shoulder. “What brought this on? Nightmares?”
“Memories,” she replies. “I wasn’t sleeping. Couldn’t.” She pauses, and the next she utters is very low. “Marked me inside and made me theirs. What if-that’s all I am? All I’ll ever be?”
“Staked everythin’ on the theory you’re a person, once,” he says. “I’d do it again, no question.”
She withdraws, glancing up at him. “How can you be sure?”
“You think I’ve been wool-gathering, them times I’ve spent with you?” he responds. “Glimpsed it before, but it’s been different since Miranda. Kaylee says you’ve blossomed, and I ain’t much for the flowery talk, but I reckon that’s as fitting a description as any. You are a person, don’t doubt that.” He gives a smile. “And a person I’m liking, besides.”
She swallows, struck by his answer, and mumbles, not quite meeting his gaze, “Like you back.”
“Well, that’s real nice to hear.” He lifts a hand and ruffles her hair. “Going to brew some fresh coffee, but there might be milk left, if you’d prefer chocolate?” At her nod of affirmation, he says, “Come along, then.”
He disentangles, rising to fetch his mug, and River gets up, wincing at a slight cramp in the leg that’s been folded under her, but it soon passes, and she walks with him to the kitchen area, hovering to assist as he makes the preparations. Before long, she has her fingers wrapped around a mug of her own, waiting for him to refill his, and blows on the liquid to cool it, the steam heating her face.
“Lounge?” he suggests, raising a brow.
“Lounge,” she agrees, and leads the way.
She sinks down to settle on one of the chairs and he does the same. River sips from her mug, savouring the taste, and sighs. She’s taken to saving the good things, tucking them away like mementoes, catching them like fireflies, to use as tiny lights against the dark. And this, she decides, being curled up in the lounge with the captain beside her, drinking hot chocolate, is a moment like that. One of the very good things.
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: The characters and settings referred to here are not mine. They are Joss's. No infringement is intended and I'm not making any money from this story.
Summary: River can't sleep for the memories.
Author's note: The third ficlet for my 10_hurt_comfort table, the prompt is "Fear". Set after the movie, but closer to it in time, I think, than most of my other fics. Many thanks, as usual, to geek_mama_2 for beta assistance!
The Bad Things and the Good
by Hereswith
She can’t sleep for the memories, can’t close her eyes for the images, her head bursting full of echoes, and the no burns at the back of her throat like bile. This won’t hurt a thing. She scrambles out of the bed, out of her room and through the passages, but the walls seem to rush in on her and the apprehension lingers, lodged in her bones, marrow-deep, she feels wide open and vulnerable, and every hair on her nape stands on end. Strap her down and get the sedatives. Now! Flinching, like the command applies to her, to the present, she stumbles, disoriented, banging side first into metal, and the pain stops her a moment, but then she continues. Fighting only makes it worse, haven’t you learned that? To breathe is an effort, in through her mouth and out through her nose, and she’s in a cold sweat, she knows she’s unhinging, slip slip sliding, but she doesn’t know what to do. Simon would worry so, and the drugs numb her, they change the world to cotton, and she’s improved, cutting down on them, managing without, these are the victories she clings to.
The galley is deserted, but the shadows move and stretch in the empty spaces, and she hesitates, rocking from one foot to the other, hugging her chest. At the sudden noise from the direction of the bridge, her head snaps up. Mal. And she panics, she’s such a blur, such a mess, and he might not let her fly, if he finds out, she has to function like a girl for that, sharp mind and steady hands. The table is nearer than the opposite doorway and she ducks under it, more from instinct than reason, trying to escape his notice.
He enters with a shuffling gait and a loud yawn, and goes to the kitchen area, to make coffee, she suspects, and the sounds that follow confirm it. He’s turned some of the lights on, but it’s not enough to illuminate where she is, to betray her, and she’s grateful. The respite is short-lived, however, for he doesn’t quit the room, when he’s finished, he approaches the table, instead, and takes a seat, almost in front of her. River stares at his boots, his trouser-clad knees, her pulse racing, and makes an attempt to edge further from him, but he extends his leg, and bumps it against her. There’s a startled exclamation, a thud as he puts his mug down, then he bends to check, and she freezes in place.
“River? What the guĭ are you doing?”
She won’t look, won’t look, hopes he’ll go away.
“Do you have any idea how early it is? Should still be in your bunk.”
She won’t speak, won’t speak, hopes he’ll go away.
He’s silent, then says, “I’ll get Simon, if that’s-”
“Don’t want him to see,” she blurts. “Don’t want you to see. I’m not here.”
“Right,” he replies, in a tone concerned and confused. “And just what is it you’re not wanting me to see?”
“Me,” she says, choking on the word. “You won’t trust me with piloting. Clip my wings and tail feathers, too.”
“That’s why you’re hiding?” He shifts, pushing the chair back to crouch next to the table. “You’re a damn fine pilot, darlin’. You’ve proved it countless ways, and I ain’t gonna forget that ‘cause you’re having a bad night.”
He’s sincere, nothing she can sense hints otherwise, and the relief is too much, she’s run too ragged with fear and remembering, and starts to tremble, unable to quell it, gulping down air in dry, hiccuping sobs. Mal mutters a curse and squeezes under to grab hold of her, pulling her out. She hurls herself at him, and he isn’t prepared for it, her weight tips his balance, and they both end up sitting sprawled on the floor. He says her name, twice, but she doesn’t listen, half-claws and clutches to get close, seeking his warmth like a wild creature. There’s calm in the centre of him, shelter in the lee of him, she burrows her face into the crook of his neck, above the T-shirt, where the skin is bare, and he endures the onslaught with awkward gentleness, letting her take what comfort she needs.
When at last she quiets, he says, though not unkindly, “I’d be beholden if you’d ease that death-grip some, else I’ll be powerful bruised.”
Mortified, she complies, but doesn’t completely release him. “Didn’t mean to.”
“Figured you didn’t.” He pats her shoulder. “What brought this on? Nightmares?”
“Memories,” she replies. “I wasn’t sleeping. Couldn’t.” She pauses, and the next she utters is very low. “Marked me inside and made me theirs. What if-that’s all I am? All I’ll ever be?”
“Staked everythin’ on the theory you’re a person, once,” he says. “I’d do it again, no question.”
She withdraws, glancing up at him. “How can you be sure?”
“You think I’ve been wool-gathering, them times I’ve spent with you?” he responds. “Glimpsed it before, but it’s been different since Miranda. Kaylee says you’ve blossomed, and I ain’t much for the flowery talk, but I reckon that’s as fitting a description as any. You are a person, don’t doubt that.” He gives a smile. “And a person I’m liking, besides.”
She swallows, struck by his answer, and mumbles, not quite meeting his gaze, “Like you back.”
“Well, that’s real nice to hear.” He lifts a hand and ruffles her hair. “Going to brew some fresh coffee, but there might be milk left, if you’d prefer chocolate?” At her nod of affirmation, he says, “Come along, then.”
He disentangles, rising to fetch his mug, and River gets up, wincing at a slight cramp in the leg that’s been folded under her, but it soon passes, and she walks with him to the kitchen area, hovering to assist as he makes the preparations. Before long, she has her fingers wrapped around a mug of her own, waiting for him to refill his, and blows on the liquid to cool it, the steam heating her face.
“Lounge?” he suggests, raising a brow.
“Lounge,” she agrees, and leads the way.
She sinks down to settle on one of the chairs and he does the same. River sips from her mug, savouring the taste, and sighs. She’s taken to saving the good things, tucking them away like mementoes, catching them like fireflies, to use as tiny lights against the dark. And this, she decides, being curled up in the lounge with the captain beside her, drinking hot chocolate, is a moment like that. One of the very good things.