Something I wrote a long time ago that I just found again recently. Was intended to be a prequel to a longer series I was going to write, but as of now it's just a one-shot.
Two months. Is that really all? He checks the calendar again. January 9th (we missed Christmas). Two months of touch and go, in and out, move move move, running but never really going anywhere. A job here, a job there. Items of questionable legality and bobble-headed geisha dolls. Getting shot at and doing some shooting.
Two months. To be exact (the broadwave went out on November 26th, 1:42 AM, Miranda-time), forty-four days, two hours, seventeen minutes, and fifty-six... fifty-seven... fifty-eight... eighteen minutes. So closer to one and a half. One and a half months measured by every breath that says I'm alive, I'm alive, I'm alive, when their eyes say otherwise.
There are plastic dinosaurs under the pilot seat and a tattered Bible in the kitchen and a room of incense and curtains that have yet to be cleared out. He turns a corner and he expects to see Wash stargazing on the bridge or Book standing beside the weights or Inara getting all pretty and Companion-like for one of her and Mal's spats... but the ship rings empty with every step. Two dead, and one who's left them behind, and is there really a difference?
But in their place is River.
River, waiting next to the bench and staring at her toes, counting under her breath and helping with the weights before he even asks. River, sitting in Wash's seat with her knees drawn up to her chest, guiding them gently through the black. River, lighting candles and talking in voices that aren't hers and maybe she sees ghosts or maybe she has ghosts. Following him around with those big, sad eyes filled with I-don't-know-what (and he doesn't want to know, either). She thinks its her fault, and sometimes he feels a little cold hard pebble bouncing above his breastbone and he can't help but agree with her. But every time he looks at her, his accusations falter and his shame grows.
He can't sweat off the guilt with work, or exercise. If there's a chance planetside, he'll grab a whore, but the satisfaction is fleeting and he can't get the smell off his skin. Somewhere along the way pursuing pleasure became dirty. He wonders if he's reached an elevated way of thinking of if he's just getting old.
Times like these, 'sides his gun and hisself, man's only got one friend.
He heads to the kitchen.
He half-knows she'll be there, even before he hears the water running and the clink of silverware, even before he sees the floaty dress and the long bare feet. She doesn't look at him, doesn't say anything, just hands him a cup of beer. He takes it, swirls it, hey-lookit-the-pretty-colors, takes a sip, puts it back down. She's been looking around his head again, and the thought chills him to the bones. What else has she seen in those dusty, unvisited avenues?
Her shoulders slump a little. A million arrows shoot at him, prodding him into action. So you didn't drink the gorram beer, he thinks. So what? Long inhale, long exhale. He downs the drink in one gulp.
Immediately, River retrieves the cup and turns back to the sink, up to the elbows in sudsy water.
After a moment of deliberation, he joins her. She makes room for him.
When he reaches underwater, or when she passes him something to dry, their hands touch. She doesn't seem to notice. (Not that it makes a difference to him. Not at all.) The minutes pass. Finally it becomes unbearable.
He slams a plate down and sweeps it off the counter with his arm. As it shatters, she jerks back, eyes wide. The guilt pours on. Gorramit.
"What?" he asks, desperately. "What do you want from me?"
He'd like to say what happened next was entirely her fault. He'd like to say it was quick, too quick to foresee or stop, or that she'd used some of her creepifyin' ninja moves on him. He'd like to say, no, he hadn't wanted to, no way in hell.
He'd be lying.
It ain't such a big deal. Not really. That's what he'll tell himself later, in his bunk. But-well. When it's happening-it feels- ... Well.
She takes a step closer. One small step. He wonders if he'll throw up, or scream, or move, or something, but his mouth goes dry and his feet have grown roots and stop, moonhead, what the hell do you think you're playin' at, they rise like bile but stick in his throat and it tastes like something's burning on his tongue. Parts of his brain are shutting down and he notices, vaguely, things he's never noticed before, like who painted that leafy thing on the wall, and hey there's a scratch on that locker, and the sleeve of her dress is slipping down, and there are bags under her eyes and cracks in her lips and her skin is so smooth-
Slowly, so slowly, she puts her hands on his shoulders.
She rises up on tiptoe.
Her lips touch his.
He wouldn't call it a kiss. No, he wouldn't call it that. It barely grazes his lower lip as it is, and don't last hardly a second 'fore she backs away, one foot at a time, still staring with those gorram eyes of hers, until she reaches the door and runs. And if anyone wants to say, hadn't he leaned in a little bit- hadn't he tried to kiss her back and got nothing but air- well, he'd called 'em a damned liar and give 'em a beating for what it's worth.
He cleans the broken plate, every little shard, and finishes the dishes, and drains away the soap.
Times like this, man's only got one friend.
He turns.
Another cup of beer waits on the table.
He doesn't drink it, and his lips tingle for the rest of the day.