Fic: Taking Back the Sky (Firefly)
Title: Taking Back the Sky
Rating: PG - mostly harmless
Pairings: None (Mal-centric gen)
Warnings: A teeny bit of swearing, and dubious Chinese. And, um...transexuality? Is that a warning? Scratch that, is that a word?
Disclaimer: I make no attempt to pretend that I own any of the fandom(s) herein, or their associated characters.
Summary: Mallory Reynolds has distinct views about dresses. Namely that if anyone ever tries to make her wear one ever again, they're going to be pulling it out of somewhere the sun don't shine.
Notes: I very nearly didn't write this, I was having so much trouble nailing down what I wanted to say. Stupid non-functioning brain. Written for lgbtfest prompt 605: "Young Mal first discovers the promise of freedom that the sky offers. (Mal is FtM)"
Mallory Reynolds has distinct views about dresses. Namely that if anyone ever tries to make her wear one ever again, they're going to be pulling it out of somewhere the sun don't shine. However at the age of eight, she has a vague idea that it would be bad manners to voice this thought at Great-Uncle Harold's funeral.
She still isn't happy about it though. It's itchy and clings in strange places and she keeps tripping over it. And Ma's done her hair up in ridiculous-looking pigtails. She doesn't like this at all. She wants to wear shorts and shirts like she normally does and go play by the creek with Jake Porter. She wants to be able to run around and get dirty and have fun without being scolded for ruining her stupid dress.
Mallory Reynolds is eight years old, and is determined she's never going to wear a dress again.
~*~
The next time her mother tries to coax her into skirts doesn't come for a long time. After all, there isn't much call to be wearing them on a ranch - pants are far more practical. There are girls in the nearby town who dress up in skirts and silks and paint their faces, and though they're pretty to look at, she doesn't want to dress up like that herself. By fifteen she had better muscles than a lot of the boys in town. She doesn't think much about how she looks - she works with the ranch hands, spends her days covered in dust and sweat and horsehair...and is, for the most part, happy.
She's sixteen years old when cousin Sally's wedding brings the issue up again. It's a warm evening coming on the tail of a scorching afternoon: she's exhausted, covered in dirt, and wants nothing more than a wash, a hot meal, and her bed. She leaves her filthy boots on the back porch and pads stocking-footed into the kitchen.
When she leaves the kitchen, fed and looking for a bath, her mother is standing in the hallway waiting for her.
"Mallory." Her mother is the only person who still calls her that. The ranch hands started calling her Mal as soon as she was old enough to work alongside them, and as a nickname it caught on.
"Yeah?"
"Cousin Sally's wedding is next week and you still haven't picked a dress to wear."
Mal folds her arms. They've had this discussion. "I told you, Ma. I'm not wearing a dress."
Her mother's posture is a perfect mirror of hers. They're probably the two most stubborn people on this little moon. And Ma has more practice, sure, but Mal's got teenage moodiness on her side.
"You are not going to embarrass me by turning up at this wedding looking like you came straight off the fields!" her mother snaps.
"I'll clean up smart, Ma, but I am not wearing skirts!"
"You'll wear a gorram skirt if I tell you to, Mallory Anne Reynolds!"
"Wo de ma, don't call me that! It's Mal!"
"I oughta wash your mouth out with soap. You'll- don't you walk away from me young lady!"
Mal ignores her and storms off up the stairs. The next morning she comes down to breakfast with an expression of grim determination on her face and inexpertly cut hair sticking up in spikes from her head. Her mother purses her lips and glowers but doesn't comment.
She wears a suit to the wedding.
Her new hairstyle and choice in clothing draws disapproving glances from various relatives. She isn't deaf or stupid - she hears the muttered comments. She steels herself to ignore her family's disdain. Those aren't tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. Really.
But when she goes out to work on the ranch again, expecting more of the same, she gets a surprise. An older hand called Caleb gives her an appraising glance and grins.
"Like the haircut," he says.
She looks up hopefully; "Really?"
"Hell yeah," Caleb winks, "You're one of the lads - might as well look the part."
She spends the rest of the day with a thoughtful expression on her face, her work slightly distracted. Although she'd never thought of it in quite those terms before, Caleb had a point. She'd always been 'one of the lads'. Even as a child she'd ignored dolls in favour of toy guns and building blocks - a few years later she'd wandered away bored from tea parties and games of skipping-rope to play in the dirt with the boys.
The other girls her age look at boys and giggle and whisper behind their hands. Mal finds herself looking and thinking why couldn't that have been me?
Mallory Reynolds is sixteen years old, and has come to the conclusion that she really doesn't like being a girl very much.
~*~
By the time Mal turns eighteen, even her mother has given up on trying to get her to answer to 'Mallory'. She's Mal to everyone now. The local lads treat her as one of their own: she's a better shot than most of them, and stronger than more than a few.
Cousin Sally already has two children, and Mal's mother is making worryingly grandchildren-oriented noises. Mal does not like this idea at all. Maybe the idea of wanting to get...up close and personal...with some handsome lad isn't particularly objectionable, but she really doesn't fancy tying herself to one of them forever and ever, amen.
Plus there's the fact that the idea of having a baby...of something living growing inside you makes her feel more than a little queasy. She's never got why women coo over newborns. They're small and loud and aren't terribly interesting - as far as she can tell, they don't do anything much. She has a feeling she wouldn't be much of a mother. But on the other hand, she thinks of what little she remembers of her Da, and thinks that maybe she'd make a good father.
She tries to avoid her mother. She loves her, but she doesn't want to be around her right now. She doesn't want to have to explain to Ma that she's probably never going to settle down with some nice local boy and supply her with numerous grandchildren.
And she withdraws more and more into herself, because if she can't talk to her mother, who the hell can she talk to?
It's Jake Porter who asks her what's wrong, one chilly spring morning in the grey half-light before dawn. They've been up all night - Jake's brother has just announced his engagement to Lucy Sullivan, and the party continued well into the wee hours of the morning. When Ma Porter finally declared the celebrations closed and ordered everyone to bed, Mal and Jake made off with a few bottles of Bobby Sharpe's home brew and hid out in the hayloft.
Mal's known Jake for longer than she can remember. It's one of the constants in her life. Sky's blue, horse shit stinks, and Jake Porter will back her up no matter what sort of mess she's found her way into. So she finds herself spilling the whole story.
"So your ma wants grandkids and you don't," Jake summarizes.
"Pretty much," Mal shrugs.
"Tell you what," Jake says, "We've got it easy. Find a wife and she does the difficult bit."
"I hate you," Mal says without rancor.
"No you don't," Jake replies cheerfully, and fails so badly at looking innocent that she can't help but laugh. "Hey, you're one of us at heart. Just your bad luck you ain't got the bits to match,"
"Oh, shut up."
It's just a joke, but it sets her to thinking. Thoughts it probably isn't normal for a teenage girl to be having, but thoughts she kinda likes the shape of. It's not the kind of thing people talk about, but she knows there's fancy doctors in the Core who can switch people's bits around as easy as her ma would sew up a new shirt. It's an oddly appealing prospect. But then she imagines the look on her mother's face and cringes.
Mal Reynolds is eighteen years old, and she thinks that maybe what she really wants to be is a he.
~*~
As far as the crew of the freighter Metis are concerned, their newest recruit is and always has been called Malcolm Reynolds. Maybe they think the boy's a bit shy - after all, he won't strip off his shirt no matter how hot it is, and only showers when there's no-one else around - but that doesn't matter. He's a good kid, and you run into all sorts out in the black. Nothing wrong with being a little bashful.
Mal's never felt so free.
His mother died six months ago, quiet and peaceful in her sleep. He sold the ranch off: could have got a nice fat payment from some offworlder, but in the end he sold it to Caleb at a discounted rate. Felt right to do it. The very next day he packed a bag and headed for Shadow's docks to sign on as crew somewhere.
After what Jake Porter probably thought was a harmless joke, he went on the Cortex and did a little quiet research into those fancy Core doctors he'd heard about. He's already got more than enough from the sale of the ranch to get the basics done, but he wants the full works, and that costs serious money.
He's getting there though. He's almost got enough. He's saving up his pay, not spending a penny more than he absolutely has to. He's going to have the life he always wanted, even if he didn't always know it.
Malcolm Reynolds is twenty-one years old, and for the first time in his life he's free to be whoever he wants.
~*Fin*~
Rating: PG - mostly harmless
Pairings: None (Mal-centric gen)
Warnings: A teeny bit of swearing, and dubious Chinese. And, um...transexuality? Is that a warning? Scratch that, is that a word?
Disclaimer: I make no attempt to pretend that I own any of the fandom(s) herein, or their associated characters.
Summary: Mallory Reynolds has distinct views about dresses. Namely that if anyone ever tries to make her wear one ever again, they're going to be pulling it out of somewhere the sun don't shine.
Notes: I very nearly didn't write this, I was having so much trouble nailing down what I wanted to say. Stupid non-functioning brain. Written for lgbtfest prompt 605: "Young Mal first discovers the promise of freedom that the sky offers. (Mal is FtM)"
Mallory Reynolds has distinct views about dresses. Namely that if anyone ever tries to make her wear one ever again, they're going to be pulling it out of somewhere the sun don't shine. However at the age of eight, she has a vague idea that it would be bad manners to voice this thought at Great-Uncle Harold's funeral.
She still isn't happy about it though. It's itchy and clings in strange places and she keeps tripping over it. And Ma's done her hair up in ridiculous-looking pigtails. She doesn't like this at all. She wants to wear shorts and shirts like she normally does and go play by the creek with Jake Porter. She wants to be able to run around and get dirty and have fun without being scolded for ruining her stupid dress.
Mallory Reynolds is eight years old, and is determined she's never going to wear a dress again.
~*~
The next time her mother tries to coax her into skirts doesn't come for a long time. After all, there isn't much call to be wearing them on a ranch - pants are far more practical. There are girls in the nearby town who dress up in skirts and silks and paint their faces, and though they're pretty to look at, she doesn't want to dress up like that herself. By fifteen she had better muscles than a lot of the boys in town. She doesn't think much about how she looks - she works with the ranch hands, spends her days covered in dust and sweat and horsehair...and is, for the most part, happy.
She's sixteen years old when cousin Sally's wedding brings the issue up again. It's a warm evening coming on the tail of a scorching afternoon: she's exhausted, covered in dirt, and wants nothing more than a wash, a hot meal, and her bed. She leaves her filthy boots on the back porch and pads stocking-footed into the kitchen.
When she leaves the kitchen, fed and looking for a bath, her mother is standing in the hallway waiting for her.
"Mallory." Her mother is the only person who still calls her that. The ranch hands started calling her Mal as soon as she was old enough to work alongside them, and as a nickname it caught on.
"Yeah?"
"Cousin Sally's wedding is next week and you still haven't picked a dress to wear."
Mal folds her arms. They've had this discussion. "I told you, Ma. I'm not wearing a dress."
Her mother's posture is a perfect mirror of hers. They're probably the two most stubborn people on this little moon. And Ma has more practice, sure, but Mal's got teenage moodiness on her side.
"You are not going to embarrass me by turning up at this wedding looking like you came straight off the fields!" her mother snaps.
"I'll clean up smart, Ma, but I am not wearing skirts!"
"You'll wear a gorram skirt if I tell you to, Mallory Anne Reynolds!"
"Wo de ma, don't call me that! It's Mal!"
"I oughta wash your mouth out with soap. You'll- don't you walk away from me young lady!"
Mal ignores her and storms off up the stairs. The next morning she comes down to breakfast with an expression of grim determination on her face and inexpertly cut hair sticking up in spikes from her head. Her mother purses her lips and glowers but doesn't comment.
She wears a suit to the wedding.
Her new hairstyle and choice in clothing draws disapproving glances from various relatives. She isn't deaf or stupid - she hears the muttered comments. She steels herself to ignore her family's disdain. Those aren't tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. Really.
But when she goes out to work on the ranch again, expecting more of the same, she gets a surprise. An older hand called Caleb gives her an appraising glance and grins.
"Like the haircut," he says.
She looks up hopefully; "Really?"
"Hell yeah," Caleb winks, "You're one of the lads - might as well look the part."
She spends the rest of the day with a thoughtful expression on her face, her work slightly distracted. Although she'd never thought of it in quite those terms before, Caleb had a point. She'd always been 'one of the lads'. Even as a child she'd ignored dolls in favour of toy guns and building blocks - a few years later she'd wandered away bored from tea parties and games of skipping-rope to play in the dirt with the boys.
The other girls her age look at boys and giggle and whisper behind their hands. Mal finds herself looking and thinking why couldn't that have been me?
Mallory Reynolds is sixteen years old, and has come to the conclusion that she really doesn't like being a girl very much.
~*~
By the time Mal turns eighteen, even her mother has given up on trying to get her to answer to 'Mallory'. She's Mal to everyone now. The local lads treat her as one of their own: she's a better shot than most of them, and stronger than more than a few.
Cousin Sally already has two children, and Mal's mother is making worryingly grandchildren-oriented noises. Mal does not like this idea at all. Maybe the idea of wanting to get...up close and personal...with some handsome lad isn't particularly objectionable, but she really doesn't fancy tying herself to one of them forever and ever, amen.
Plus there's the fact that the idea of having a baby...of something living growing inside you makes her feel more than a little queasy. She's never got why women coo over newborns. They're small and loud and aren't terribly interesting - as far as she can tell, they don't do anything much. She has a feeling she wouldn't be much of a mother. But on the other hand, she thinks of what little she remembers of her Da, and thinks that maybe she'd make a good father.
She tries to avoid her mother. She loves her, but she doesn't want to be around her right now. She doesn't want to have to explain to Ma that she's probably never going to settle down with some nice local boy and supply her with numerous grandchildren.
And she withdraws more and more into herself, because if she can't talk to her mother, who the hell can she talk to?
It's Jake Porter who asks her what's wrong, one chilly spring morning in the grey half-light before dawn. They've been up all night - Jake's brother has just announced his engagement to Lucy Sullivan, and the party continued well into the wee hours of the morning. When Ma Porter finally declared the celebrations closed and ordered everyone to bed, Mal and Jake made off with a few bottles of Bobby Sharpe's home brew and hid out in the hayloft.
Mal's known Jake for longer than she can remember. It's one of the constants in her life. Sky's blue, horse shit stinks, and Jake Porter will back her up no matter what sort of mess she's found her way into. So she finds herself spilling the whole story.
"So your ma wants grandkids and you don't," Jake summarizes.
"Pretty much," Mal shrugs.
"Tell you what," Jake says, "We've got it easy. Find a wife and she does the difficult bit."
"I hate you," Mal says without rancor.
"No you don't," Jake replies cheerfully, and fails so badly at looking innocent that she can't help but laugh. "Hey, you're one of us at heart. Just your bad luck you ain't got the bits to match,"
"Oh, shut up."
It's just a joke, but it sets her to thinking. Thoughts it probably isn't normal for a teenage girl to be having, but thoughts she kinda likes the shape of. It's not the kind of thing people talk about, but she knows there's fancy doctors in the Core who can switch people's bits around as easy as her ma would sew up a new shirt. It's an oddly appealing prospect. But then she imagines the look on her mother's face and cringes.
Mal Reynolds is eighteen years old, and she thinks that maybe what she really wants to be is a he.
~*~
As far as the crew of the freighter Metis are concerned, their newest recruit is and always has been called Malcolm Reynolds. Maybe they think the boy's a bit shy - after all, he won't strip off his shirt no matter how hot it is, and only showers when there's no-one else around - but that doesn't matter. He's a good kid, and you run into all sorts out in the black. Nothing wrong with being a little bashful.
Mal's never felt so free.
His mother died six months ago, quiet and peaceful in her sleep. He sold the ranch off: could have got a nice fat payment from some offworlder, but in the end he sold it to Caleb at a discounted rate. Felt right to do it. The very next day he packed a bag and headed for Shadow's docks to sign on as crew somewhere.
After what Jake Porter probably thought was a harmless joke, he went on the Cortex and did a little quiet research into those fancy Core doctors he'd heard about. He's already got more than enough from the sale of the ranch to get the basics done, but he wants the full works, and that costs serious money.
He's getting there though. He's almost got enough. He's saving up his pay, not spending a penny more than he absolutely has to. He's going to have the life he always wanted, even if he didn't always know it.
Malcolm Reynolds is twenty-one years old, and for the first time in his life he's free to be whoever he wants.
~*Fin*~