Discalimer: Joss equals Boss.
A/N: I will get off the crack soon. Promise. Post-BDM, River's PoV (with a surprisingly lite serving of CRI). Read, enjoy, let me know what you think.
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It was plotting.
She could hear it, rustling, whispering, scheming.
Draped innocently over her shoulder, no one would have given it a second glance, but River was a prodigy, and she knew better than most.
Better than Inara when she ran her fine brushes through it, or Kaylee when she plaited it and weaved a ribbon into the vast tendrils, or Daddy when he patted her head in his awkward way of saying he cared.
Better than Simon when he washed the vomit from it when her stomach did not agree with his medicine (but she has always known better than Simon, so it does not surprise her that he would not catch on to a nefarious plot taking place beneath his nose).
It was all so well hidden, so painstakingly concealed that River does not blame them for not realizing the truth in due time, after all, she could not expect them to hear its humming whispers when their own thoughts were so loud that any outside noise was lost.
So it went on in its plans and no one noticed the girl's hair plotting.
No one, that is, except her.
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She knew it was planning to strangle her the day it went quiet.
Not a rustle or a whimper or silken hiss from it as Kaylee pulled it up, up, up, and let it all fall back in airy pieces that sought to distract with a graceful dance before landing on River's back.
"You've got to have some of the prettiest hair in the whole verse River. All dark and long, you ain't even gotta try for it to look shiny." Kaylee said, because she always had loved the other girl's hair. Reminded her of her mother's hair, even if Josephine Frye's hair had never been so dark, or if it had always smelled more of honeysuckle than hospital, it felt the same in Kaylee's brown hands.
But River didn't hear any of this, not the words that came of Kaylee's mouth or the ones that simply relayed across her mind; she's too busy listening to the silence.
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River Tam kept secrets.
It was what she did best above all things. Above physics and dancing and learning and killing, secret keeping was her true talent. As a child she witnessed what she witnessed and kept it her own. Braided it into the shadows on her head and held her peace.
She swallowed the truth when Simon broke the jade bookend in Father's study and the time the maid pocketed a crystal teardrop that fell from one of the wind chimes her mother liked to hang at the windows (more for their sparkle than their actual purpose since the Tam house did not depend on open windows for ventilation).
So when she discovered her hair was planning to murder her (in her sleep most like, when the girl's defense were down and her neck was exposed to its murderous tendrils, because her hair was cowardly in its conspiracy and could not stand the challenge of a true fight), she bit her tongue and kept her silence.
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No one knew what it was plotting, so River told no one when she began plotting back.
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She pampered it. Like a prisoner's last meal, except it did not know what was coming.
She allowed Kaylee to brush it shiny and play with it between her rough fingers. She allowed Inara to bathe it with her perfumes, let her soft hands twist it and turn into a rose bud atop her head, let her adorn it with garnets and onyxes.
Simon smiled when she turned for him, said it was beautiful. And in his head, she heard him sigh, heard the release of relief, heard him count lucid days and good days and laugh with happiness at the total.
It was almost enough to make her risk sharing her plan.
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It was dark and her hair slept, unawares. It was a poor adversary, she decided, making her way quietly past Simon's empty quarters, bare feet silent on the cold floor.
She did not need lights to find what she sought in her brother's infirmary, knew the room inside and out—like Simon and his charts knew her insides and her outsides, except that his were neater, less sharp and shiner—found what she came for with a smile.
The metal blades cut through her betrayer with the same ease with which they cut through skin and the girl could hardly contain her laughter at her victory.
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"Mei mei," Simon's voice was gentle in the artificial light and Kaylee collected the shorn pieces of girl that littered the floor like unraveled ribbons. His mouth was fixed in a solid line—reason and distress and the inability to comprehend—the lackluster drone of disappointment toying at the corners. "What made you cut your hair?" But it was a half-question, asked more out of disbelief than want of explanation. His fingers played away from the uneven ends, as though the jagged edges could catch on his skin, and she saw the word in his eyes, on his fingers, in the set of his mouth.
Ugly.
She spilled her reasons at his feet to do away with it.
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End
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