Disclaimer: Still don't own it.
Author's Notes: Thanks for the reviews, guys! It's nice to know that my ideas are at the very least plausible to the readers. :D Last time I had some layout difficulties, so I'm crossing my fingers that this time all the right formats upload properly.
It's been a few days since his last encounter with the girl-weapon by her lonesome, and he's been doing some thinking since then. Well, as much thinking as a big merc can do. There is always some odd job around the cargo bay, or the engine room, (or anywhere on the ship) which the Cap'n sees fit for him to do.
Odd as it sounds, it isn't easy for him to find many moments to himself. For such a small craft and small crew, Serenity sure does bustle with life.
In one of those rare moments of solitude, where it's too late into the night for anyone to need him; he's shut himself down in his bunk (made sure he locked the door and all), and is doing some serious thinking.
Vera's lying on the bed beside him, glinting dully in the dim lights hanging around the ceiling. He casts an expert eye over her sleek, intricate design, and feels a fondness stirring in the pit of his stomach.
Vera's dependable. Hell, all guns are dependable. In the right hands, they're little machines of death and destruction, and there isn't anything quite like the knowledge that in your hands, you're holding bullets with names on them.
His eyes, dark blue and turbulent these days, cloud over, and his smile is gone. Guns are dependable, not girls.
Not girl-weapons, even if they never run out of ammo, even if they never miss.
He runs a calloused hand over his face, fingers rubbing thoughtfully at the stubble along his jaw.
He's an expert about weapons. Sure he is. Not a soul in the 'verse as knowledgeable about weapons and the like as he is. Those who are sure aren't as knowledgeable when it comes to applying that knowledge, though. He isn't just a merc; he's a gorramn weapon himself.
That's what she meant, wasn't it? Both of them; both of them are weapons in their own separate ways.
She sways and twirls and deals death from fluttering hands and pointed feet; he's heavy fists and steel muscles, keeping death in lead form, tucked into straps and holsters.
Both weapons.
How, then, does that make him any more trustworthy than she?
Scowling, he puts Vera away and draws the sheets over his gun rack; somehow, the sight of those familiar pistols only seem to mock him in his moment of realization.
The room is suddenly suffocating and he hastily leaves, seeking the open atmosphere of the cargo bay.
He's instinctively quiet, treading softly along the metal grates; he's a trained tracker. Can't help feeling like he needs to be quiet when it's this dark and silent. Don't want to disturb the silence in any way.
The cargo bay isn't empty, however. He walks in, and in the middle of the dusty floor lies the girl-weapon (it's become his name for her, even if he isn't aware of it yet).
He pauses delicately, feeling somewhat exasperated as opposed to surprise. Of course she'd be here. Why wouldn't she be here? It's too much to expect her to sleep in normal bed. He's only mildly disappointed in her predictability. He would've imagined her curled up somewhere much less easily explained – inside one of the vents, maybe, or perched on top of the damned engine.
He rubs his neck, and approaches.
The girl-weapon rolls over to face him, owlish eyes fixed on his features. She's wearing pitifully little: one of her sleeveless dresses that don't fit quite properly, like they belonged to an older sister, except she didn't have an older sister. Her feet are bare again.
She looks oddly comfortable, as if she'd been there for a while.
He crouches slowly beside her, and looks down at her, a small furrow in his brow.
She speaks before he can gather his thoughts. "Clouds are gone."
"Might be," he replies evenly. A brief silence, and then, "Been thinkin'." She nods, encouraging him with her unchanged, passive expression. "Y'said we were both weapons. Reckon that's about the only thing y'ever said to me that weren't so crazy."
"Comprehension from others is pleasant to behold," she says quietly.
"Reckon that don't make me all that trustworthy either," he continues, watching her carefully.
"His misdeed is in the past. Ought to let go of things that are no longer present."
He stares at his hands for a little while, and he knows they're thinking about Ariel.
She sits up to face him properly, but her eyes are downcast and her little hands are pressing lightly against the sides of her head. "White walls, pristine. All locks and bolts, can't lock them out, don't want them in."
"Ain't nobody comin' in here what we don't want." He grows uncomfortable, and looks away.
The girl-weapon tilts her head curiously, hands falling to rest in her lap. "He hasn't let go."
"Come 'gain?"
"Still holding onto guilty memories, can't be paid away by bushels of apples."
Uncomfortable feelings curled in on themselves; put on the spot, he grows resentful, annoyed, and then angry. "Told you to quit Readin' me, crazy, y'got a death wish or somethin'?"
He stands abruptly, and thuds out of the bay, fists clenched, only to find that she's twirled to her feet and is following him placidly.
"Both weapons," she explains patiently, when he turns around irritably to fix her a glare, "Ought to be placed away until such occasions arise in which weapons are needed."
He stares for a while, decides he doesn't want to ask, and lumbers back to his bunk. Only trouble is that she's still following him, like his own little shadow, or puppy. He's always wanted a puppy, but not the creepifyin' human-girl-weapon kind. One hand on the door-ladder to his bunk, he stops her in her tracks with a thick finger pointed in her face.
"Go to sleep, crazy," he says, voice low and menacing, "In yer own bed, mind. "
She blinks at him, and then concedes, turning on her toes to flit away. "Sulfur, potassium nitrate, charcoal; specific post-transition metal. Error will not recur."
Against his better judgment, he whispers after her, "What're yeh on about, crazy?"
She sways to a stop, and mimics his whisper, "Mustn't mix colors and whites." She nods emphatically, and floats away on feet that don't seem to even touch the floor.
He's left staring after her again, no more enlightened than he was a minute ago.
I think this is turning out to be a little more than a two part drabble. So much for that! Stay with me, please? I hope to pick up the pace within the next few chapters and really delve into their, er, budding relationship. As always, reviews are so darn shiny.