Firefly: "Chén" (Mal/Simon)
Jul. 2nd, 2008 10:56 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mclachlandChén, by ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mclachlan
Firefly
Mal/Simon, established
Summary: Morning on the open range is a thing of the past.
Disclaimer: Nathan Fillion is not mine. But I'm working on it.
Simon stands in the grass, tall against the blades, infinitesimal against the sky, an unhappy medium with no purpose save to simply exist. The land is unfamiliar, with its aromas of hard labor and some type of pastry just rescued from a well-loved oven. His eyes slide shut and he inhales deeply. It smells like home.
A small whine and he opens his eyes, looking at the dog, a mangy thing with small burrs trapped in the fur under its belly. It gazes expectantly at him.
"Best not be dealin' with 'im." Where there had been only a dog now there is also a boy, with hair the color of earth and eyes reflecting the vastness of the sky. "Cy-otes can be right mean when they wanna be."
Simon looks at the boy, at his eyes, and nods. "I'll remember that."
The boy rocks on his heels thoughtfully, a smudge of dirt streaking a shadow across one chubby cheek. "You ain't from 'round here, yeah?"
"No," he says, turning to look behind him where a small house rests against the horizon, a woman tending to maybe twenty cows, perfectly at ease with her task and the rest of the world. His own mother was never that content, never once, even in its smallest infancies. "No, I don't think I am."
"You lost?"
The coyote ambles over to his side and sits, pressing its muzzle into his leg. It speaks with River's voice. "Not lost. Just wandering."
Blue eyes dart down to the animal leaning against his leg, and the boy nods, understanding. "Well, you wandered right into the best darn ranch, planet-side. Ma's makin' her famous strawberry pie. Long as I get my fruits, she said, it don't make no difference how I get 'em."
He smiles at the little boy, who's hooked his little thumbs around his little suspenders, all pride and innocence. Simon can smell it, the sweet scent of untouched hopes and days spent playing cowboys and Indians.
"Bet Ma'd let you have a piece," the boy continues, rocking again on his heels. "Ma's real nice, treats folk real good. 'Specially fancy folk like yourself."
Simon is suddenly very aware of his shoes, polished and new, unable to attract any of the dust kicked up from the boy's movements.
"You from one of them high-class worlds, ain't you? I read about 'em, seen the pictures of girls in big dresses, much bigger 'an my Ma's. They all look like dolls, gliding about at their big parties and such." The blue eyes grow cloudy with intent. "One day, Ima go to one of them dances, an' everyone'll talk about the handsome man who ate all that rich food and broke all the girls' hearts."
Laughter bubbles free, and Simon smiles. "Oh yeah? And who says you'd be invited? They don't invite just anyone to a party on the Core."
The boy looks at him as if he'd forgotten Simon was brain-damaged. "I'd be the greatest man that ever lived! Captain of my own ship, ridin' from world to world, leavin' my mark behind. Because I'd be bringin' 'em food and clothes and games and stuff from all my trips. An' when I left, the townsfolk would say, "Gosh, that Malcolm Reynolds sure is somethin'."
The coyote gets to its feet and looks up at Simon. "The past's in the past and it's passed. Shadows go out to pasture, and there are no more pies in the morning. There are no more mornings anymore."
There is a darkness on the horizon, a storm coming, and the woman is calling for the boy, her voice a tossing ship on a wild wind. The boy turns his eyes to the sky, his gaze older and tired.
"It'll be better come mornin'." The boy looks at the coyote, then back to Simon. "There's always a mornin', somewhere." A smile. "Best get outta the storm, mister. It's gonna be a doozy!"
A kick of dust, and the boy is gone, disappearing into Shadow.
He wakes in the infirmary, cheek pressed against the unforgiving surface of his desk, the open range a distant, muddled memory. A hand lifts from his shoulder and the image of the boy blurs, the palm cupping his cheek as he lifts his head.
"Best get to bed, there." There is warmth, love, all of it familiar in Mal's words, seeping from his fingers to his tongue, like strawberry pie. "Don't need you complaining about a crick in the neck come morning."
"Is there morning in the Black?" Simon's own tongue is not nearly as honeyed as Mal's, all cotton that needs picking and trampling cattle.
A chuckle, and then, "Don't rightly know. But it'll be morning somewhere."
mclachlanFirefly
Mal/Simon, established
Summary: Morning on the open range is a thing of the past.
Disclaimer: Nathan Fillion is not mine. But I'm working on it.
Simon stands in the grass, tall against the blades, infinitesimal against the sky, an unhappy medium with no purpose save to simply exist. The land is unfamiliar, with its aromas of hard labor and some type of pastry just rescued from a well-loved oven. His eyes slide shut and he inhales deeply. It smells like home.
A small whine and he opens his eyes, looking at the dog, a mangy thing with small burrs trapped in the fur under its belly. It gazes expectantly at him.
"Best not be dealin' with 'im." Where there had been only a dog now there is also a boy, with hair the color of earth and eyes reflecting the vastness of the sky. "Cy-otes can be right mean when they wanna be."
Simon looks at the boy, at his eyes, and nods. "I'll remember that."
The boy rocks on his heels thoughtfully, a smudge of dirt streaking a shadow across one chubby cheek. "You ain't from 'round here, yeah?"
"No," he says, turning to look behind him where a small house rests against the horizon, a woman tending to maybe twenty cows, perfectly at ease with her task and the rest of the world. His own mother was never that content, never once, even in its smallest infancies. "No, I don't think I am."
"You lost?"
The coyote ambles over to his side and sits, pressing its muzzle into his leg. It speaks with River's voice. "Not lost. Just wandering."
Blue eyes dart down to the animal leaning against his leg, and the boy nods, understanding. "Well, you wandered right into the best darn ranch, planet-side. Ma's makin' her famous strawberry pie. Long as I get my fruits, she said, it don't make no difference how I get 'em."
He smiles at the little boy, who's hooked his little thumbs around his little suspenders, all pride and innocence. Simon can smell it, the sweet scent of untouched hopes and days spent playing cowboys and Indians.
"Bet Ma'd let you have a piece," the boy continues, rocking again on his heels. "Ma's real nice, treats folk real good. 'Specially fancy folk like yourself."
Simon is suddenly very aware of his shoes, polished and new, unable to attract any of the dust kicked up from the boy's movements.
"You from one of them high-class worlds, ain't you? I read about 'em, seen the pictures of girls in big dresses, much bigger 'an my Ma's. They all look like dolls, gliding about at their big parties and such." The blue eyes grow cloudy with intent. "One day, Ima go to one of them dances, an' everyone'll talk about the handsome man who ate all that rich food and broke all the girls' hearts."
Laughter bubbles free, and Simon smiles. "Oh yeah? And who says you'd be invited? They don't invite just anyone to a party on the Core."
The boy looks at him as if he'd forgotten Simon was brain-damaged. "I'd be the greatest man that ever lived! Captain of my own ship, ridin' from world to world, leavin' my mark behind. Because I'd be bringin' 'em food and clothes and games and stuff from all my trips. An' when I left, the townsfolk would say, "Gosh, that Malcolm Reynolds sure is somethin'."
The coyote gets to its feet and looks up at Simon. "The past's in the past and it's passed. Shadows go out to pasture, and there are no more pies in the morning. There are no more mornings anymore."
There is a darkness on the horizon, a storm coming, and the woman is calling for the boy, her voice a tossing ship on a wild wind. The boy turns his eyes to the sky, his gaze older and tired.
"It'll be better come mornin'." The boy looks at the coyote, then back to Simon. "There's always a mornin', somewhere." A smile. "Best get outta the storm, mister. It's gonna be a doozy!"
A kick of dust, and the boy is gone, disappearing into Shadow.
He wakes in the infirmary, cheek pressed against the unforgiving surface of his desk, the open range a distant, muddled memory. A hand lifts from his shoulder and the image of the boy blurs, the palm cupping his cheek as he lifts his head.
"Best get to bed, there." There is warmth, love, all of it familiar in Mal's words, seeping from his fingers to his tongue, like strawberry pie. "Don't need you complaining about a crick in the neck come morning."
"Is there morning in the Black?" Simon's own tongue is not nearly as honeyed as Mal's, all cotton that needs picking and trampling cattle.
A chuckle, and then, "Don't rightly know. But it'll be morning somewhere."
