Disclaimer: do not own Firefly.
Written for: Writerverse (LJ com).
Prompt: One Day We'll Be Rich and Fancy People + bonus: second person; at least 200 words.
Note: you are Kaylee, by the way.
You can feel the sweat, the slick to your skin; it's enough to bother something fierce. Not enough to cool, no air anyway. Not where you are. Not yet. You're nothing but hot and damp. It clings and pulls in all the places you're used to; at your joints, the angles of shoulder, and the valleys of spine and breast. You promised to wear the gloves, thick fabric made for welding; shucked them when fingers drowned and encumbered your precision work.
You're an artist. For you she's all whispering hues and musical lines, she'll call for a sitting, be your still life in decay. It's something you can fix though, her steady decline and bouts of lung rust. And it's not magic, what you do. It's not. It's technical and mechanical even when you know it's more. It's found objects and glue, it's diligence and worship. It's religious ecstasy and messy reality because you're human, it's hot, and you've only got so much to work with.
You're also something of a miracle worker. You'll hem and haw when they say so, say you aren't or change the topic, but you know. Know it's true. And tonight when you're back in your bunk you'll let yourself think it, and smile. Because you'll hear her aria after the overhaul and the retro-retro-refitting and yeah, you've got the touch.
You won't get to the thermal regulators 'til tomorrow though, cheap polyadhesive has stayed your hand. If it were up to you, you'd have her on a Core world and give her top of the line fittings. At least you're not pressed for time.