Fic: No Power in the 'Verse, Part 12/18 (Firefly, River/Mal, PG-13)
Title: No Power in the 'Verse: XII. Touched
Rating: PG-13
Words: ~2100
Pairing: River/Mal, mentions of Kaylee/Simon
Notes: Chapter title from Dirty Dancing by Frida Hyvonen, cut text from That Silver Necklace by Tired Pony
This chapter could alternately be titled Five Times River Touched Mal, in Various Ways or Four Times Mal Told River No, and One Time He Didn't, as I wrote it in the 'five times' format.
XII. Touched
River lurks in the doorway of the galley, a thing she has extraordinary talent for. Leaving her feet free of confines allows both direct communication with Serenity and the ability to move without sound. This is how she has come to be standing here, watching a man who's made himself increasingly difficult to get alone.
“Sometimes I think about you. In my bunk. At night.”
She has definitely caught Mal by surprise, as he jumps up and whirls to face her, nearly causing his mug to meet with the floor. “Wo de ma, I can't be hearing that!”
“Your voice has gone perceptibly higher,” she says, moving past him to sit down. “Have I made you uncomfortable?”
“Damn right you have. Ain't right to be tellin' a man those sorts of things.” His voice has returned to its normal register, but he hasn't sat down again, doesn't trust the air in the room.
“Sorry, Captain,” she says, though she's well aware her grin makes her words a lie, tries to smooth her face. “Want to tell you a story, though. A serious one.”
“And it don't involve what you do in your bunk at night?”
“No,” she says softly, meeting his eyes so he will see the truth in hers. He sits reluctantly; poised for flight, but sitting all the same. “It's a very old story, from ancient times on Earth-That-Was. About a girl named Cassandra.” She pauses, but there's no hint of recognition from him; perhaps one poem was as much as could be expected. “She'd been cursed by the gods, could see the truth of things. But no one ever believed what she said. Called her crazy. Ignored her.” He's watching her steadily now; he's no fool, sees her parallels clearly enough. “She was never wrong, but they didn't listen. So she lost everything and everyone she loved, and no one came to a good end. Because they all thought they knew better.”
She meets his eyes, and there's a universe of possibility between them for a second, so clear before her eyes that she could put her hand inside and give it to him.
Then he stands, turns away from her, and she sighs, watching her universe fade away.
“It's a sad story, albatross. But that's the way of things at times, as I see it. Can't all be happy endings.”
“Mal-”
“No, River,” he says, walking away. “Leave it.”
***
Flying gives a man a lot of time to think, and these last few days, his mind keeps drifting back to that story of hers. He recalls full well plenty of times in the past where River had something worthwhile to say, if only they'd known how to listen. It's his belief that she knows her own mind well enough now, ought to be allowed to choose her own life. If only he could convince her that, as choices go, he's one as would be like to bring her more bad than he's worth.
Not like there's any lack of chances to, way that woman likes sneaking up on him, catching him with his thoughts on her. “Ain't always ignored your words, you know,” he says, alerted by her reflection in front of him, not needing to look around to know she's hanging on the edge of the doorway.
“Yes,” she says, walking across the bridge to her station, not seeming the least bit bothered at being caught out. “Paid for what I didn't want to know.”
The memory of Wash drifts between them, and Mal's chair suddenly feels a mite more uncomfortable than usual.
“You fought with Zoë over him,” she says, pulling thoughts into speech in her creepifying way.
“Didn't so much fight about it as have a rather prickly talk. Zoë don't do much of her fighting with words,” he says.
“Why was it bad? They loved each other. Couldn't be kept apart even by you.”
“That's the substance of what Zoë told me, in less friendly terms.” He frowns, remembering that. They had, in fact, been the kind of terms that told him precisely where he could stow his disapproval. “Romance among the crew makes for all manner of problems. People get distracted, they get tetchy, then 'fore you know it they don't like each other no more and you lose a good member of your crew over it.”
“You allowed it, though. Allow Simon and Kaylee too.”
“Didn't have much choice, you've seen the way Kaylee looks when she wants something. Man would have to be a monster to deny that face.”
“But you shut me out.”
The black isn't giving him any answers tonight, just reflects his own fears back at him. “Have to let my crew take their own risks. But y'all look to me, and I gotta protect you best I can. There's too many I've lost already.” He looks at her, perched in her chair, and a near visceral shudder of dread goes through him at the thought of losing her too. “You go, you take the doc with you, I know that well enough. Can't risk losing you, River.”
“So you won't have me because you don't want to lose me?” The withering look she gives him clearly says he hasn't got the brains of a monkey.
“Sounded a mite less foolish before you said it,” he admits, but foolish or not, it's the truth. The memory of Wash sighs in his head, calls him a coward, and Mal's forced to agree. But he's always been one to know when a risk is acceptable, and when to turn and run, protect what's too precious to gamble with at all.
***
In the grit and heat of the cargo bay, River perches on a box and watches. Mal is loading up the cargo, rough crates of produce covered in the red dust and clay of this planet, and her eyes are fascinated by the way of him, by the movement of him, the dance of his muscles in the lift, turn, step pattern.
He knows she is watching, she is certain of this. The rest of the crew is absent, and she no longer takes pains to hide herself from him, to cover her desire under layers of fog and stolen glances. But he says nothing to her, doesn't so much as look at her, and his determination to ignore is smothering River near as much as the baking sun outside.
She unfolds herself from her perch, steps down, and sets herself almost lazily to intercept him.
“Mal,” she says, head cocked, considering whether the feel of him would be like the taste of sun-warmed raspberries.
He finally rests from his constant movement, pausing near her. “You got something to say then, River? Cause I tell you, it grates on a man's nerves after a bit, feelin' like he's putting on a show for you.”
“Mal,” she says again, softer, placing cool narrow fingers on his arm, feeling the heat sear her skin. “Please.”
He does not look up at her. Instead he stares down at the point where they are joined, and when he speaks, his voice is low and rough. Dangerous. “Watch there, darlin', your hands'll get dirty.”
River knows her swift indrawn breath is audible, and he breaks away, turns back to his work without another word, leaving her feeling feverish in the bright sunlight.
***
He's taking inventory of their weapons, going through the storage locker piece by piece, making sure everything's properly cleaned and in its place. River's balanced on a crate nearby, lying on her back with her hair cascading off one end, her skirt slid so high up her thighs it's taking an effort on his part to be even an alright man. It's strange, but he's finding as the weeks go by, he minds less and less the way she appears behind him with regularity; finds a certain satisfaction in her conversation, in the logical way she tries to go about dismantling his every argument. He's beginning to run out of new reasons to deny her, truth be told, but it's never been said he's a man who lacks imagination. Today though, he's distracted by her, by the shape of her draped over that crate, and his reasoning ain't as inventive as it might be.
“I'm too old for you, darlin', and that's the plain truth of it. People already think little enough of me, don't need to add to it by taking up with a girl half my age.”
“Only people who don't know you think little of you. And you don't care what they think. Anyhow, age is just a number based on irrelevant and outdated measurements of time. Doesn't have meaning.”
He laughs a bit, but it's lacking in humor. “You think that now. But - and I'm taking a risk here and presuming you want more'n just a tumble outta me - what 'bout ten years down the line when you're in your prime and I'm getting old?”
She lifts herself off the crate and stands in one smooth motion. “You think that's what I care for?” she asks, moving in front of him. “I appreciate the package,” she says, her voice soft, “but it's the substance that matters.” She brushes her fingers across his forehead. “Here. Was your belief and your will that helped save me, not your body.”
He takes a step back, hoping she can't read what even her slightest touch does to him, how hard it's getting to keep his hands to himself. “Was sure as hell my body that took the grief for it, as I recall.”
“Yes,” she says, reclaiming her place on the crate. “I wouldn't let it happen again.”
Damned if he knows whether that's advice or a promise.
***
River is growing tired, tired of pushing through his thoughts to search out his emotions. Even after all her careful work, the pages of his mind are not easily deciphered, blocking her, at times, from all but the most unguarded thoughts. She tells herself that this is good, that it is proper and she shouldn't be prying where she's no right to be anyhow. That he wants her comes through clearly enough; still, she is lost as to the way to breach his wall of reserve, to turn wanting into having. And as days have lengthened into weeks, and more, she finds herself slowly freezing inside, the sparks she feels when they touch no longer enough to keep ice from closing in around her.
Once, she had not understood love. Now she knows that each painful bit of understanding brings only more confusion in its wake, knows that this is something she can't unlock on her own. If love is an equation, she has only half the factors, needs him to complete the process.
They are on the bridge again, bonded by the black.
“Binary stars,” she says softly, picking out points in oblivion.
“What's that, darlin'?” Mal asks, rousing himself from silence.
“Binary stars. Two stars, both rotating around a common center of mass. Trapped in a cycle with each other, dancing but never touching. Destined to be alone together.”
He sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “River-”
“Don't,” she says, rising. “Can't be. Heard it before. Know it by heart.”
“What happened to that girl?” he asks, making her hesitate as she walks away. “Cassandra, the one from your old story?”
She looks back at him, wondering how long this can hurt, if anything short of everything will ever give her enough of this man. “Selfish men stole her from her home, made her a slave. She died.” It's too close, too near truth, and as she blinks back tears from her eyes, he's suddenly standing there before her, so close she doesn't dare to move.
“River, that will not happen to you again,” he says, his fingers hesitating before he brushes them against her cheek, as though he's afraid the contact will break one of them. “Not 'less I'm dead first, you understand?”
She turns her head, pressing her lips against his palm, and knows one thing in the moment before a wave breaks the silence, separates them: this time, he welcomed her touch.
Part 11 - Master Post - Part 13
Rating: PG-13
Words: ~2100
Pairing: River/Mal, mentions of Kaylee/Simon
Notes: Chapter title from Dirty Dancing by Frida Hyvonen, cut text from That Silver Necklace by Tired Pony
This chapter could alternately be titled Five Times River Touched Mal, in Various Ways or Four Times Mal Told River No, and One Time He Didn't, as I wrote it in the 'five times' format.
XII. Touched
River lurks in the doorway of the galley, a thing she has extraordinary talent for. Leaving her feet free of confines allows both direct communication with Serenity and the ability to move without sound. This is how she has come to be standing here, watching a man who's made himself increasingly difficult to get alone.
“Sometimes I think about you. In my bunk. At night.”
She has definitely caught Mal by surprise, as he jumps up and whirls to face her, nearly causing his mug to meet with the floor. “Wo de ma, I can't be hearing that!”
“Your voice has gone perceptibly higher,” she says, moving past him to sit down. “Have I made you uncomfortable?”
“Damn right you have. Ain't right to be tellin' a man those sorts of things.” His voice has returned to its normal register, but he hasn't sat down again, doesn't trust the air in the room.
“Sorry, Captain,” she says, though she's well aware her grin makes her words a lie, tries to smooth her face. “Want to tell you a story, though. A serious one.”
“And it don't involve what you do in your bunk at night?”
“No,” she says softly, meeting his eyes so he will see the truth in hers. He sits reluctantly; poised for flight, but sitting all the same. “It's a very old story, from ancient times on Earth-That-Was. About a girl named Cassandra.” She pauses, but there's no hint of recognition from him; perhaps one poem was as much as could be expected. “She'd been cursed by the gods, could see the truth of things. But no one ever believed what she said. Called her crazy. Ignored her.” He's watching her steadily now; he's no fool, sees her parallels clearly enough. “She was never wrong, but they didn't listen. So she lost everything and everyone she loved, and no one came to a good end. Because they all thought they knew better.”
She meets his eyes, and there's a universe of possibility between them for a second, so clear before her eyes that she could put her hand inside and give it to him.
Then he stands, turns away from her, and she sighs, watching her universe fade away.
“It's a sad story, albatross. But that's the way of things at times, as I see it. Can't all be happy endings.”
“Mal-”
“No, River,” he says, walking away. “Leave it.”
***
Flying gives a man a lot of time to think, and these last few days, his mind keeps drifting back to that story of hers. He recalls full well plenty of times in the past where River had something worthwhile to say, if only they'd known how to listen. It's his belief that she knows her own mind well enough now, ought to be allowed to choose her own life. If only he could convince her that, as choices go, he's one as would be like to bring her more bad than he's worth.
Not like there's any lack of chances to, way that woman likes sneaking up on him, catching him with his thoughts on her. “Ain't always ignored your words, you know,” he says, alerted by her reflection in front of him, not needing to look around to know she's hanging on the edge of the doorway.
“Yes,” she says, walking across the bridge to her station, not seeming the least bit bothered at being caught out. “Paid for what I didn't want to know.”
The memory of Wash drifts between them, and Mal's chair suddenly feels a mite more uncomfortable than usual.
“You fought with Zoë over him,” she says, pulling thoughts into speech in her creepifying way.
“Didn't so much fight about it as have a rather prickly talk. Zoë don't do much of her fighting with words,” he says.
“Why was it bad? They loved each other. Couldn't be kept apart even by you.”
“That's the substance of what Zoë told me, in less friendly terms.” He frowns, remembering that. They had, in fact, been the kind of terms that told him precisely where he could stow his disapproval. “Romance among the crew makes for all manner of problems. People get distracted, they get tetchy, then 'fore you know it they don't like each other no more and you lose a good member of your crew over it.”
“You allowed it, though. Allow Simon and Kaylee too.”
“Didn't have much choice, you've seen the way Kaylee looks when she wants something. Man would have to be a monster to deny that face.”
“But you shut me out.”
The black isn't giving him any answers tonight, just reflects his own fears back at him. “Have to let my crew take their own risks. But y'all look to me, and I gotta protect you best I can. There's too many I've lost already.” He looks at her, perched in her chair, and a near visceral shudder of dread goes through him at the thought of losing her too. “You go, you take the doc with you, I know that well enough. Can't risk losing you, River.”
“So you won't have me because you don't want to lose me?” The withering look she gives him clearly says he hasn't got the brains of a monkey.
“Sounded a mite less foolish before you said it,” he admits, but foolish or not, it's the truth. The memory of Wash sighs in his head, calls him a coward, and Mal's forced to agree. But he's always been one to know when a risk is acceptable, and when to turn and run, protect what's too precious to gamble with at all.
***
In the grit and heat of the cargo bay, River perches on a box and watches. Mal is loading up the cargo, rough crates of produce covered in the red dust and clay of this planet, and her eyes are fascinated by the way of him, by the movement of him, the dance of his muscles in the lift, turn, step pattern.
He knows she is watching, she is certain of this. The rest of the crew is absent, and she no longer takes pains to hide herself from him, to cover her desire under layers of fog and stolen glances. But he says nothing to her, doesn't so much as look at her, and his determination to ignore is smothering River near as much as the baking sun outside.
She unfolds herself from her perch, steps down, and sets herself almost lazily to intercept him.
“Mal,” she says, head cocked, considering whether the feel of him would be like the taste of sun-warmed raspberries.
He finally rests from his constant movement, pausing near her. “You got something to say then, River? Cause I tell you, it grates on a man's nerves after a bit, feelin' like he's putting on a show for you.”
“Mal,” she says again, softer, placing cool narrow fingers on his arm, feeling the heat sear her skin. “Please.”
He does not look up at her. Instead he stares down at the point where they are joined, and when he speaks, his voice is low and rough. Dangerous. “Watch there, darlin', your hands'll get dirty.”
River knows her swift indrawn breath is audible, and he breaks away, turns back to his work without another word, leaving her feeling feverish in the bright sunlight.
***
He's taking inventory of their weapons, going through the storage locker piece by piece, making sure everything's properly cleaned and in its place. River's balanced on a crate nearby, lying on her back with her hair cascading off one end, her skirt slid so high up her thighs it's taking an effort on his part to be even an alright man. It's strange, but he's finding as the weeks go by, he minds less and less the way she appears behind him with regularity; finds a certain satisfaction in her conversation, in the logical way she tries to go about dismantling his every argument. He's beginning to run out of new reasons to deny her, truth be told, but it's never been said he's a man who lacks imagination. Today though, he's distracted by her, by the shape of her draped over that crate, and his reasoning ain't as inventive as it might be.
“I'm too old for you, darlin', and that's the plain truth of it. People already think little enough of me, don't need to add to it by taking up with a girl half my age.”
“Only people who don't know you think little of you. And you don't care what they think. Anyhow, age is just a number based on irrelevant and outdated measurements of time. Doesn't have meaning.”
He laughs a bit, but it's lacking in humor. “You think that now. But - and I'm taking a risk here and presuming you want more'n just a tumble outta me - what 'bout ten years down the line when you're in your prime and I'm getting old?”
She lifts herself off the crate and stands in one smooth motion. “You think that's what I care for?” she asks, moving in front of him. “I appreciate the package,” she says, her voice soft, “but it's the substance that matters.” She brushes her fingers across his forehead. “Here. Was your belief and your will that helped save me, not your body.”
He takes a step back, hoping she can't read what even her slightest touch does to him, how hard it's getting to keep his hands to himself. “Was sure as hell my body that took the grief for it, as I recall.”
“Yes,” she says, reclaiming her place on the crate. “I wouldn't let it happen again.”
Damned if he knows whether that's advice or a promise.
***
River is growing tired, tired of pushing through his thoughts to search out his emotions. Even after all her careful work, the pages of his mind are not easily deciphered, blocking her, at times, from all but the most unguarded thoughts. She tells herself that this is good, that it is proper and she shouldn't be prying where she's no right to be anyhow. That he wants her comes through clearly enough; still, she is lost as to the way to breach his wall of reserve, to turn wanting into having. And as days have lengthened into weeks, and more, she finds herself slowly freezing inside, the sparks she feels when they touch no longer enough to keep ice from closing in around her.
Once, she had not understood love. Now she knows that each painful bit of understanding brings only more confusion in its wake, knows that this is something she can't unlock on her own. If love is an equation, she has only half the factors, needs him to complete the process.
They are on the bridge again, bonded by the black.
“Binary stars,” she says softly, picking out points in oblivion.
“What's that, darlin'?” Mal asks, rousing himself from silence.
“Binary stars. Two stars, both rotating around a common center of mass. Trapped in a cycle with each other, dancing but never touching. Destined to be alone together.”
He sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “River-”
“Don't,” she says, rising. “Can't be. Heard it before. Know it by heart.”
“What happened to that girl?” he asks, making her hesitate as she walks away. “Cassandra, the one from your old story?”
She looks back at him, wondering how long this can hurt, if anything short of everything will ever give her enough of this man. “Selfish men stole her from her home, made her a slave. She died.” It's too close, too near truth, and as she blinks back tears from her eyes, he's suddenly standing there before her, so close she doesn't dare to move.
“River, that will not happen to you again,” he says, his fingers hesitating before he brushes them against her cheek, as though he's afraid the contact will break one of them. “Not 'less I'm dead first, you understand?”
She turns her head, pressing her lips against his palm, and knows one thing in the moment before a wave breaks the silence, separates them: this time, he welcomed her touch.
Part 11 - Master Post - Part 13