Not Your Agenda
River is subject to the plans of others.
Written for the LiveJournal community 15minuteficlets. Prompt word: "Missing" Sort of an experiment in 2nd person POV.
When you open your eyes you can't ever remember where you are. The rooms aren't solid white with invisible doorways that slide open at the touch of blue. No alarm woke you, told you when to rise (to bathe, to eat, to sleep). You're disoriented and so scared that the nausea hits for a second…just a second…before you remember Serenity.
And Simon. You remember Simon too. Before the academy he was your metronome. School mornings, his knock on your bedroom door on his way to the bathroom would be your alarm clock. Weekends he'd come in and yank at your blankets, teasing and sweet, until you'd get up. Clockwork simple. You always knew what to expect with Simon.
Then. You knew what to expect then. On Serenity he doesn't wake you up anymore. The meds do their soothing and Simon won't interrupt, not when the crew breathes easier while you're unconscious.
The captain tries to set schedules to make time appear to pass normally for everyone: mealtimes, sleep-times. Fake days and nights pre-set into Serenity's computer regulating internal lights. You don't see how it matters when one planet-stop sends internal clocks spinning, flailing to balance the day-night-day; and Serenity's so dark anyway, especially around her corners.
But the meds follow no schedule. They wax and wane irregularly in your veins, rousing you when all of Serenity is sleeping or killing wakefulness with the prick of a needle (a spindle - Kaylee says you're a real Beauty). The meds make you miss fake hours, fake days, and maybe fake months. No one knows how long their sleep lasts unless someone tells them; no one tells you anything and you've almost forgotten how to ask. The syrupy sick sleep injected into your blood seems to stretch out forever, like the black, with bright star moments of clarity.
When you're awake and wandering you scratch time into your skin; dry fingernail paths glowing palely in Serenity's fake night. Parallel lines of meaning to keep track of what you took for granted in those other places, when you were that other person. How long were you in that box before you fell, naked, onto Serenity's deck? (How old are you?) How many years, months, days, minutes did you lose in cold sleep before landing in the circle of Simon's arms once more? You want to ask him, but you're afraid of his eyes and maybe a little afraid of his needles.
He'll prick your arm and when you awake all your careful calendar marks will be gone, skin smooth and pale under his hands as he catches you, your prince (your enemy). He calls you Mei-Mei in a whisper and you're forever in stasis.
fin