Title: No
Rating: PG
Warnings: Not too many here, but if you're squeamish about blood, I'd stay away. If you can watch the show, you can read this.
Summary: They'll waltz together.
Author's Note: Huh. Remember when I posted regularly? Let's try to get back to that. Merry Christmas, everyone and my most sincere apologies for lack of movement on Barque in the Harbour. Also, I would apologize for once more going with the obvious dance theme, but really, River and dance just...work. My apologies. Also, many thanks to Sid, who inadvertently kicked my muse into gear.
For: Tish, because she is amazingly patient and isn't answering her phone. I'm hoping to draw her out of the woodwork with this. I'm not above bribery.
"No."
The word is emphatic; it has no room for argument. River shakes her head, resolve in the tear-filled eyes that she has locked on Mal's.
"No," she says again as he opens his mouth.
Mal stays quiet for a moment, takes her in. He's danced around her for awhile, and she's danced with him, learning his steps as he learned hers. She makes coffee for him (when there's coffee that can be made) in the mornings, both of them up before the rest of the crew, sits next to him at the table, her knees pulled under her chin, her pale thighs mostly exposed. He puts a steadying hand on her (either her neck or her elbow, depending upon if they're alone or with others) when she gets that look in her eyes, the one that tells him she's hearing things she doesn't want to hear. A thousand steps making up a dance uniquely their own, but they haven't learned them all yet, haven't clasped hands and moved in time to heartbeats- one, two, three; one, two, three.
Now, Mal thinks, as he lies on the ground that is turning red, he should have taken the chance that he'd stumble. It's part of the reason he stays silent now, because speaking costs him energy, costs him time, and he wants every second he can have with River, because those seconds are dwindling at an alarming rate. But, there are things he has to tell her, has to say to her, because he'll never get another chance.
"River," he begins, but this merely earns him a glare, and she presses harder against the wound in his gut, her hands stained.
"No," she tells him. "I want to hear you say it, want the words to pass your lips, but not like this, not because you think it's too late. You still have sand left, Malcolm, and Simon will fix you and give you more sand than you have now."
"River." Mal tries again, coughs copper, and reaches a hand out to her face, which she allows, a curl wrapping around one of his fingers. Soft, he thinks.
"No," she says again, and it's angry this time. "You owe me a lifetime of dances, not just this one."
Mal hears the mule from a distance, and he places his other hand atop both of hers, his blood coating both of them, binding them together, sticky and warm.
He locks his gaze onto hers, and he knows he'll never look away again.
"Yes, River," he complies, and she softens, a tear slipping from her eye.
He brushes it away.
She nods. "Yes, Mal."