Disclaimer: I don't own it. Everything you recognise
belongs to Joss. No infringement is
intended and I'm certainly
not making any money from this story.
Summary: It's seven days since Inara left again.
Author's note: Written for the prompt Love at the 10hurtcomfort challenge community on
Livejournal.
Late Night Talk
by
Hereswith
Serenity and walked in a direction opposite Mal's, and the captain is still turned inward, marked
by the absence, though he makes no show of it and acts with studied calm.
When River enters the bridge, he's
already there, but her tread is tiptoe light, she isn't wearing her
boots, and he doesn't note her arrival. He's leaning back in the
pilot's seat, deep in a dark place
of mind, and she hesitates near the
doorway, reluctant to intrude. Before she can decide what to
do,
however, he becomes aware of her, perhaps it's the weight of her gaze,
or by the pricking of
his thumbs, though she isn't so very wicked, even
if she has been called a witch.
He shifts to look at her. "River?"
"Should I leave?" she says, balancing, half prepared to pivot on her heel.
He gives a slight shake of the head. "Stay if you like. Seems too quiet round here anyhow."
She makes her way to the co-pilot's chair and sits down. "When it's too quiet, you hear yourself
think too loud."
"Yes," Mal agrees. "That's the trouble."
She glances at him. "I can listen. Be all ears for you."
"That's mighty kind," he says, "and I appreciate you offering, but it's how it is. Ain't much to be
talking about."
His
expression reveals nothing, but the air ripples with the unsaid and she
catches, without intending
to, the tail end of a pain he quickly curbs.
"Wasn't your fault," she ventures. "Or hers. Can't make
something fit,
if it doesn't. Not without cutting it out of shape."
"You an expert on such things, are you?" he asks, but there's no bite in his tone.
"It's
common sense," she replies, but adds, far softer, "I'm sorry." He nods,
his attention straying
to the windows and the black, and River swivels
the seat back and forth with her feet, pondering.
"I'll never have
that."
"Have what?"
"Love." It wouldn't have mattered
before, the have or not have of it, but she's less jumbled inside
than
she was, and more conscious of what's lost. What they stole. "It's not for me."
He makes a small, huffing sound. "And why's that?"
"You know," she says, in reproach. "I'm not right in the brain, not normal."
"There's few of us are normal,"
he responds, unfazed, "comes to scratching 'neath the surface.
Mightn't
be like them other girls, but you ain't wrong. You're River. Any boy'd
be fortunate you
give him the time of day."
He states it with
emphasis and she doesn't quite believe it's true, but she believes that
he means
it. "You're a good man, Malcolm Reynolds."
It takes him off guard, she can tell, and his brows dip. "Am I?"
Though
it isn't precisely a proper question posed to her, more a musing, she
answers him. "I can
read you. Patterns and alignments. And I've met
enough bad men to tell the difference."
He regards her, sympathy clearing his frown. "Reckon you have."
Memory
lurks, readied to spring, but she shoves it aside, focusing on the
here, the now, the captain.
"A good man," she repeats, "and you have a
good heart. Don't make it cold. You'll find someone
to hold it safe."
"Who
says that's what I want?" She casts him a look, the one she's honed and
perfected on Simon,
and he concedes, "Well. Leastaways not anytime soon
I don't. I'm real tired of bein' spun about."
"Makes sense," she replies. "So dizzy you can't see straight. You have to stand still and close your
eyes. Wait for it to pass."
"Something like that," he sighs, rubbing the side of his face. "It's getting late. I'm for bed. What
about you?"
"Not yet." She draws her left leg up under her, settling more comfortably. "I'll watch the stars
a while."
"Alright." Mal rises, stretching, then approaches the co-pilot's chair and puts his hand on her
shoulder.
"Thanks, little one."
With
a sudden impulse she tilts her head to rest her cheek against his
fingers, the backs of his
knuckles, and the silence unfolds a moment,
neither of them moving, before she cranes her neck up
at him.
The quirk of his lips, faint as it is, brief though it is, is laced with genuine warmth, and he gives her
shoulder a squeeze. "Wăn ān."
"Good
night," she echoes, and as he departs, follows him with her gaze until
he's disappeared
from sight. "He smiled," she says, to the dinosaurs,
to the humming ship that surrounds her. "It's
something, isn't it?"
And she's certain that they all agree.