Fic: Linen (Firefly)
Two challenge fics in a row. Wow. RL must be boring for this to happen.
Title: Linen
Author: Ivy
Disclaimer: All hail Joss, etc., etc.
A/N: For the ff_friday Simon challenge (cross-posted). Dedicated to Simon’s wardrobe.
Word Count: 596
The lights in Serenity's guest quarters slowly brightened. Simon put his arms over his eyes to stave off the inevitable, but knew he had to get to work.
He splashed his face and hands in the basin, eyes still squinting in the brightness. He tousled his hair and yawned. Somehow he never felt like he'd slept soundly on this ship. Maybe it was the rumble of the engines. Maybe it was the thought that murderous Alliance enforcers were hunting him and his sister.
Simon pulled on one of his fine shirts, a throwback from the days when he was still a star surgeon on the core worlds. He noticed a thread hanging down from his right elbow. Trying to get a good look without walking over to the mirror - why did elbows have to be so hard to examine? - he pulled on the thread.
Oh, crap.
He straightened his arm and tried to rotate it. Oh, there was definitely a hole there now. Crap, crap, crap.
He yanked the shirt off in frustration and turned it over. He stuck a finger through the hole, but that only made it bigger. He flopped back on the bed. Maybe I can fix it, he thought. Somebody on the ship must have a needle and thread. Probably Kaylee or Inara, though he couldn't imagine Kaylee doing anything so girly or Inara doing anything so menial. Maybe Jayne. Now there's a thought. Somehow it was easier to picture Jayne patching up his clothes than anyone else on board. He certainly had the most occasion to put rips in them. Simon smiled to himself and shook his head.
Simon took a moment to examine the shirt. The cuffs were scuffed, the hems starting to unravel. The collar was a mess: softened from wear and the complete lack of an iron. The other elbow was threadbare.
The shirt was falling apart. He'd never had a shirt wear out before. Growing up there'd always been more clothes than necessary. Shirt styles went out of fashion long before he could wear one out. He'd always liked the ritual of getting a new shirt. The coolness of the fine linen, the starch of the collar almost biting into his neck. He'd liked that, almost like a cleric's collar. It made him feel adult and responsible. Buttoning up a new shirt was like buttoning up his emotions - he could focus better, think better in the confines of a tailored cloth.
River was the complete opposite. She hated new clothes, liked to break them in, she said. Simon thought of it as just breaking them. He was the older brother, he had to be responsible. And while River had the intelligence and the vivacity, Simon had the reserve. Together they balanced each other.
When he'd left home for the last time, he could only take a few of his own belongings. He was torn between utilitarianism and knowing that he would never have access to such luxury again. He picked a few of his sturdiest shirts but couldn’t help running lingering fingers over silken finery before shutting his closet door. He knew it was stupid, it was just something he put on, but it felt like part of who he was.
Now the shirt felt different when he put it back on. He could feel air through the hole, but he’d just leave that for now. He stretched his arms and felt only the give of the fabric. It wasn’t holding him together any longer, it felt loose and free. Not broken, lived in.
Read on AO3.
Title: Linen
Author: Ivy
Disclaimer: All hail Joss, etc., etc.
A/N: For the ff_friday Simon challenge (cross-posted). Dedicated to Simon’s wardrobe.
Word Count: 596
The lights in Serenity's guest quarters slowly brightened. Simon put his arms over his eyes to stave off the inevitable, but knew he had to get to work.
He splashed his face and hands in the basin, eyes still squinting in the brightness. He tousled his hair and yawned. Somehow he never felt like he'd slept soundly on this ship. Maybe it was the rumble of the engines. Maybe it was the thought that murderous Alliance enforcers were hunting him and his sister.
Simon pulled on one of his fine shirts, a throwback from the days when he was still a star surgeon on the core worlds. He noticed a thread hanging down from his right elbow. Trying to get a good look without walking over to the mirror - why did elbows have to be so hard to examine? - he pulled on the thread.
Oh, crap.
He straightened his arm and tried to rotate it. Oh, there was definitely a hole there now. Crap, crap, crap.
He yanked the shirt off in frustration and turned it over. He stuck a finger through the hole, but that only made it bigger. He flopped back on the bed. Maybe I can fix it, he thought. Somebody on the ship must have a needle and thread. Probably Kaylee or Inara, though he couldn't imagine Kaylee doing anything so girly or Inara doing anything so menial. Maybe Jayne. Now there's a thought. Somehow it was easier to picture Jayne patching up his clothes than anyone else on board. He certainly had the most occasion to put rips in them. Simon smiled to himself and shook his head.
Simon took a moment to examine the shirt. The cuffs were scuffed, the hems starting to unravel. The collar was a mess: softened from wear and the complete lack of an iron. The other elbow was threadbare.
The shirt was falling apart. He'd never had a shirt wear out before. Growing up there'd always been more clothes than necessary. Shirt styles went out of fashion long before he could wear one out. He'd always liked the ritual of getting a new shirt. The coolness of the fine linen, the starch of the collar almost biting into his neck. He'd liked that, almost like a cleric's collar. It made him feel adult and responsible. Buttoning up a new shirt was like buttoning up his emotions - he could focus better, think better in the confines of a tailored cloth.
River was the complete opposite. She hated new clothes, liked to break them in, she said. Simon thought of it as just breaking them. He was the older brother, he had to be responsible. And while River had the intelligence and the vivacity, Simon had the reserve. Together they balanced each other.
When he'd left home for the last time, he could only take a few of his own belongings. He was torn between utilitarianism and knowing that he would never have access to such luxury again. He picked a few of his sturdiest shirts but couldn’t help running lingering fingers over silken finery before shutting his closet door. He knew it was stupid, it was just something he put on, but it felt like part of who he was.
Now the shirt felt different when he put it back on. He could feel air through the hole, but he’d just leave that for now. He stretched his arms and felt only the give of the fabric. It wasn’t holding him together any longer, it felt loose and free. Not broken, lived in.
Read on AO3.