Drabbles

[itsallovernow]

So, this is pretty much what I did yesterday. The results of all the drabble prompts:

For raithen, who wanted "Spring has sprung, Firefly":



If it had been anyone else who asked, anyone but Kaylee, she wouldn't have agreed, wouldn't be sitting here on this thin blanket, holding a cup of cold tea, wishing it was something hot, whiskey or coffee or anything else. The grass underneath the blanket isn't exactly green, is a pale wheatish yellow grown too tall out here in these rolling fields. They could have been in town, sitting in a cafe but there wasn't a real port and Mal hadn't wanted to pay the docking fee in the private field near town. And besides, Kaylee had asked for a picnic. She'd wanted someplace warm, and springy, she'd said. Someplace nice. No one much has the heart to tell her no.

Kaylee lolls against Simon, his fingers gentle on her knee and picks through the protein sandwiches she's put together for all of them. Protein with fake butter, with fake hoisin, with fake tomatoes, protein plain, protein with pickles that they'd gotten in trade. Simon takes what he's given, watching Kaylee's face, ignoring the food.

At the edge of the hill, River walks circles in the grass, bare feet pressing down the stalks in careful and it's easier to watch her dancing patterns into the vegetation than it is to watch Mal sit cross-legged and awkward, a careful distance from Inara with her easy grace. Easier than watching Simon and Kaylee and the newness, that raw, bright love. River's madness has dissipated somewhat, but her fierce concentration remains and Zoe doesn't mind tracing it, keeping track as it unfurls on the stalks of grass under the pale sunshine. She's held tight to that sort of concentration, held tight to a singular sort of focus since Wash died. She can ignore the soft whispers in her ear, the gentle teasing, the low thrum of love and absence.

She spends time with Jayne, more than anyone, when she isn't alone. He can be counted on to say something foolish, more often than not, but it's meant with blunt kindness, and easily met with equally blunt fists.

Mal's unusually silent on the subject of loss.

But it's River who holds her gaze, who moves with youthful grace and couched awareness, who looks at Zoe with knowledge, and with honesty, who can say, "I'm sorry he's gone," and mean only that.

Still,this is not how she would have pictured her life, pictured these plucked moments, here on the edge of a field, tea in her hands and sun at her back. And for now, she's looking to reconcile past , future and the places in between.
***
For haphazardmethod, who wanted "Aeryn's Grin":


It was easier not to talk about distance and boundaries. Easier to push into them, push past them, find the brick wall and bounce off of it because every once in awhile there was an unexpected gap in the defenses. That gap was worth the black eye and bloody lips of a face plant into the citadel.

He sat on one of her chairs, bare feet propped on the edge of her bed while she lounged at the other end, propped up by her pillow, hair loose and clean, thin tank and loose pants covering her body. Her feet were bare as well, one foot tucked under her body, the other outstretched. The pants rucked up a little against the coverlet, showing the fine curve of her ankle bone, the line of pale skin. He wanted to kneel down, hold her ankle in his hand, pull her forward to him, surround himself in her breath and weight and scent.

Right now, the moment was easy and lax, merely dangling the possibility of stretching into something that could be weighted and heavy. Sure, the day had started with talk of sex and loss and death, but it was ending - unexpectedly - with laughter. In the face of everything, laughter was a gift, something to reach for, to hold.

"I thought he'd go right through the bulk head, kept ramming her, finally shoved a rag in her mouth to shut her up."

Aeryn tilted up the bottle of rilsa he'd secured from the station, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and leaned forward to pass it to him. Her lips tilted in an amused smile.

"Trust the lot of you to end up with a religious fanatic magnetized to a commerce station wall."

She shook her head, but didn't lose the small smile. He snorted, "Thought Pilot was going to lose it there when he spaced her. Cat's gotta a streak of poetic irony in him."

She grinned widely at that, her smile starburst bright in the small chamber and his pulse beat hard, knees went to jelly, heart clenched. Thought of moments, so many moments basking in that wide, wild grin. The moment shifted taut, ease turning to the purity of want. Christ, he was just so goddamned happy to be able to see her smile.

Barriers be damned, he thought, let his feet fall to the floor. He must have said her name, saw the grin drop, the wattage dim, fading to something that burned just as hot, but lower, ultraviolet instead of starry.

She tilted up her head, eyes shrewd and wanting as he stood in front of her, as he reached for the curve of her neck, the silk of her hair. Her breath was warm against his belly and there was no way to couch his reaction. She smiled wide again, feral and needy, put her hand on his hip.

He bent at the waist, awkward and helpless and kissed her, kissed away the smile and the want and the need. Felt her teeth and her tongue and the grip of her fist as she scratched against his skin, and then let go. Backed up, backed off, backed away.

"Fluid levels," he breathed, scowled, whimpered. She folded her other leg to her body, watched him with wide angry eyes.

"Self-service," she said, throwing back his phrasing, throwing back his words, but her mouth was gentle.

"Good night," he said, low in his throat, and left before he could change his mind, figured out how to change hers.
***
For pdxscaper who wanted John and Kaylee talking about their ships:

It's nice to have an extra pair of hands here with her, not that they're her hands, but hands on her girl, on Serenity and Crichton's hands are steady.

He's got the spanner jammed into the rotation cuff while she reroutes the power couplings.

"She's a beauty," he says as he watches her braid and splice, watches as she nuzzles the crest of the engine, coaxing her girl with new breath.

"She's the best," Kaylee agrees, then hurries on. "Your ship's real fine, too, but Serenity...she's special."

Crichton changes his angle, changes the pressure while he unscrews the bold from the thruster casings. "Different purposes," he says. "She was a research vessel. I...built her from scratch, to test a theory."

That makes Kaylee smile, somehow. "You're gonna tell Wash what to do, right? Tell him how to get Serenity to open that door, take us all through."

His frame stills, tightens and he angles his head, looks at her straight. She puts down the soldering iron. Swallows rough and hard.

"Honey, you know that's not how it's gonna work."

Her eyes feel hot and glassy, and she presses her knee to the low hanging curve of her girl's engine. Takes some comfort there.

"That skimmer's a piece of junk, won't go through a wormhole," she sniffs. "Not if it's anything like you said."

"We'll tie it up tight, and Aeryn'll pilot. She's the best around." His voice is full and tight with pride. "She hates my module, but she'll fly it true. Fly us all home."

"Not home for Simon and River," she says, low and hard, feeling raw, feeling lost and mean and needy. "Not even their 'verse."

John puts down the coupler and squats in front of her. He puts a hand on her knee. His knuckles are dirty, fingernails cracked and there's a cut on his cheek.

"They aren't gonna make it if they stay here with you. Might have a chance with us."

There's nothing left to say. No one's asked her how she feels about this leaving. No one's asked her if she'd want to come along. She doesn't think she'd abandon her Captain, abandon her girl, but the point is that no on has asked. Maybe they know and don't want to hear it spoke loud.

"We've only got one chance to go through it the wormhole opens when and where I think it will. This ship's gotta catch the solar flare and she can only do that if she's fast as she can be."

His eyes glint blue in the dark and Kaylee thinks about his wife, her dark hair and her closed off eyes, the way her nails bite into Crichton's hand and the way he leans into her space, arm against the swell of her belly. She thinks about Simon, about River, and about the running, all the running they've been doing and those blue men...and the blood. There was a lot of blood, tears and crying, and blood.

"She'll be as fast as you need her to be," she says, soft and fierce, and feels like a grownup. Feels lost and sick and ready for it to be something past, something done.

***
For kernezelda who wanted Pilot, Moya and Boomer:


She'd come on board with a party of Kalish resistance fighters seeking asylum, but she clearly wasn't Kalish - dark haired and dark eyes and little of the Kalish arrogance, just a hard, watchful gaze. Crichton kept an eye on her and Aeryn kept her gun leveled. The Kalish kept to themselves, kept out of trouble. The dark haired woman didn't deviate from that pattern until the third night in space, halfway to their destination.

Crichton brought her to Pilot's den, pulse rifle tucked under his arm, eyes blurry.

"Aeryn's up with the kid, and she," he jerked his chin at the woman, "asked to see you. Couldn't think of a good reason to say no. She's clean."

He leaned up against the console, hip resting in one of the ridges, rifle aimed lazily at the woman who stepped forward without fear.

"This ship is alive," she said, and Pilot nodded.

"Yes."

"And you're bonded to her."

He nodded again.

"We…we've got the same thing. Sort of. Where I come from."

"And where exactly is that?" Crichton shifted his weight, bringing some menace to bear. The woman ignored him.

"She's biomechanoid, organic and metal, like the biloids."

Pilot's hands moved quickly, nervously over the panels.

"She is alive, sentient. She was born, she has given birth. She is uniquely herself. She is nothing like the biloids."

The woman stepped forward, put her hand on the console. Pilot watched her steadily, and she didn't flinch when Crichton raised his weapon.

"You need to not go any farther," he said, and his voice cold with his certainty.

"I can't go home," she said. "I thought they were like me, but they're nothing like me. There are thousands of me, and only…" she swallowed. "I wanted to be the only one. And I thought, maybe…" Her hand twitched against the console, then settled. "That she'd be like me."

Pilot watched her with some small compassion, and less understanding. "Somewhere I'm alive, I've betrayed, I've given birth, I've died," she said, and drew in her shoulders, becoming smaller, looking helpless. "Here, I just am. And I'm alone."

"Yes," Pilot answered, his claw going out tentatively, touching against the back of the woman's hand. "We've done those things as well."

The woman stepped back and John tracked her progress. "I think you should go now," he said, softly.

"The Kalish," she murmured. "Have a cause."

"Big cause," John answered. "Get rid of the Scarrans."

"I'm tired of causes," she replied, wooden, mumbling. "Of annhialation."

"Aren’t we all," John sighed, and shepherded her out.

***
For denyeverything1, who wanted Sam and Donna, catching up:


"You look tan," she says, sitting on the edge of Josh's couch, knees together in the way he remembers, straight-backed and almost prim. But her gaze is different, more certain, less contained. At ease.

"You..." he starts to say something else, swallows, "You look lovely." It's a stupid thing to say, but he means it.

Pink tinges her cheeks and he looks at his hands. "I'm getting married," he offers up, sudden and abrupt, looking for the ace in the deck and Donna's mouth stretches into a wide smile.

"That's nice," she says. "I hope you'll be happy."

Sam nods, undoes his tie and slides it off, curls it into a precise ball and places it on the table. They can both hear Josh in the bedroom, rifling through drawers, searching for bathing trunks and socks that aren't black.

"I'm sure he doesn't own sunscreen," Donna says. "He's going to burn."

Sam smiles at her, and leans forward. "He'll be okay. He'll probably stay in the hotel room and drink cheap drinks and pass out before he's finished dinner."

"I'm glad you'll be here," she says. And he can tell she means it, just not in the way she maybe used to. "He's going to need someone who can tell him no. And who wants to tell him yes."

There's a tinge there, a trace of something warm and fierce. "Are you going to take the job.. with Mrs. Santos?" he asks.

"Yes," she says. "I am... I think. No. I am."

There's more silence, then the sound of Josh's electric razor, and a "Whoa." Then more silence. "Almost done," he calls.

Neither Sam nor Donna answer, not when it sounds like the bag falls to the ground, or the water runs, or shoes are thrown against the wall.

"I'm going with him," Donna says finally, looking Sam in the eye. He's a test, but he's always been a good place to start.

"Good," he says, and his smile stretches out.
***
For cofax7 who wanted "Passports":


The covers are mostly blue, but one is a soft worn burgundy, another a dark mottled green. The two stand out amongst the wash of American blue and he tugs them towards himself on the desk, then steeples his hands and looks at her.

She's got one booted foot up on his desk, waiting patiently for what's to come. He wishes she were just a little nervous, wishes even for the edgy mania, for the incessant chatter she used to use to distract them all, to run her con, pull her switch.

But somewhere between self-sacrifice and self-preservation she'd found calm, found silence and stillness and watchfullness. It was discomfiting, disconcerting.

Jackson stands in the corner near the doorway, arms crossed hard over his body like he can hold in all the anger, all the outrage.

Mitchell unsteeples his hands, flicks at the corner of the burgundy passport, flips it open to see her dark hair and white teeth and wide eyes. The name underneath is Linda Seton. He doesn't know where she got it, bets it's from a movie. They'd Netflixed a bunch of stuff for her after they hadn't all died, hadn't lost the universe. After they'd lost her child. Movies and a place in the band were about all they'd had left to offer her in trade.

"What?" she says finally. "It's not like you'll take me wherever I want to go. This world requires documentation."

"So you made one for yourself? Made six?"

She shrugs, mouth quirking up in a hint of her old mischief.

"Daniel asked earlier. They said no."

Mitchell glances up, Jackson gives him a brief nod and the whole thing reminds Cameron of arguments with his mother and his sister, something about the spirit and the letter of the law.

"Didn't occur to you to tell her not to make her own?"

Jackson smiles sourly. "I can't think of everything. She's apparently a whiz at Photoshop."

Mitchell gathers the passports back up into a stack. He wants to say that he'd hoped that after everything she'd trust them, that she'd follow their rules, that she wouldn't turn this new hobby into a business enterprise.

But she's right. This world requires proof of identity, proof of citizenship and as open as the US Government was to recruiting aliens to work for them, it wasn't to hot on making them citizens, with the rights and responsibilities therein.

And he thinks, pushing the stack of passports back over to Vala, he'd want whatever options he could afford himself on a potentially hostile planet.

Maybe he wishes that they weren't so hostile. Maybe he wishes there weren't things here, there and everywhere to fear.

"I… we'd appreciate it if you didn't go anywhere without…letting someone know."

It's a grace, a concession. He doesn't have to say that they'd stop her. They both take it as a given.

She tucks the documents into the front of her shirt and swings her leg down off the table.

"It's about options, darling," she says, voice hard and tight. "A girl needs to have options." Her gaze flicks to Daniel, flicks back to Mitchell and he rubs his mouth, looks back at her.

Options, and right now she's uncovering hers. He can respect that. Her hips sway as she walks towards Daniel, fingers brushing his cheek. He scowls at her, but uncrosses his arms, matches her pace as they leave the room without being dismissed, without asking to go. He watches the movement of her body and wonders when those options are going to quit including his team.
***
For simplystars, who wanted Aeryn and Little D:


She thinks of many things as she pilots the transport through the expanse of stars - thinks of her first time in a cockpit, of teaching John to fly this ship, of the repairs that need attending to in the morning, of the meeting they've arranged with a local alliance of traders and militia in a nearby system. Mostly she thinks of how long it's been since either she or John has slept through the night. Sleep is a taunt, a drugging, dragging lure that she wants more than sex, or peace or freedom.

Every night, they're torn from its welcome confines by piercing shrieks. Only movement will still the screams.

"It's normal," he says, scrubbing blearily at his face as he stumbles with her to the pod, wiping tears and snot away from their son's face. "He's teething, he's growing, it'll be okay."

She doesn't know whether or not to believe him, but he's as tired as she and if he can see an end in sight, she'll hold to that. Still, she makes him get up with her, and does the same for him.

Aeryn glances over at the co-pilot's seat. John is strapped in, has their son in a sling against his chest. John's head lolls back as he snores, but D'Argo watches her with patient, blinking eyes. He's content to be snugged close to his father, watching the stars. His hair is a dark shock against his smooth baby skin, against John's pale neck. Even in sleep, John's arm cradles the boy, his other hand resting on his knee, palm open towards her.

It's a pattern of how their life has been, how it will go. She will steer them forward, and John will hold them close. Balance, the shifting duties of love.

She turns the pod, brings them back around starboard, brings them home, docks gently. John doesn't wake when she slips D'Argo out of his grasp, holds him to her breast, lets him eat.

John blinks at her, running his hand over her face, eyes soft and vulnerable as he watches them in the ambient light of the pod. " 'S a beautiful thing," he says, and she purses her mouth, doesn't disagree. It's an odd dichotomy, her son's warm milky scent in the confines of the pod, Moya's clean yeasty smell, components and mechanics, engines and oil, her own scent, the trace of John's skin that lingers on her own from moments spent pressed tight and close.

Her child curls his small fists, pulls away from her breast and kicks out with his foot, stretches and yawns. She holds him up, pats his back, wipes up the spittle, adjusts her shirt.

They walk to their quarters, a long slow trudge through the quiet hallways. John wraps his arm around her shoulders and D'Argo sleeps with his face tucked into her neck. The sense of dislocation is nearly overwhelming, but when she lays down on the bed, her husband rucked up to her back, child curled in her arms, she still senses the motion of flight and the pattern of stars, can close her eyes in the dark.
***
And remember, sign ups for the Thelma and Louise Do Outer Space Gal-Pal Ficathon end on May 5th!! C'mon done and play, or at least pimp far and wide!! Thanks!

ETA: I said yesterday that I'd do 10 drabbles, and this is 7, so I'll do the next three requests that come in, if anyone else has a request.

Comments

[umbo.livejournal.com]

These were wonderful :-)

[thassalia.livejournal.com]

Thank you!! I was a bad employee yesterday, but a good fan:)

[redstarrobot.livejournal.com]

Oh! Can I request a drabble? I want something original and Chandleresque.

[thassalia.livejournal.com]

Chandleresque, huh? I may need a few more prompts but I'll give it a shot.

[redstarrobot.livejournal.com]

Lemme think for a sec, and I'll come up with some more prompts. :)

[redstarrobot.livejournal.com]

A dimly-lit streetcorner, a diner with a rotary phone in the phone booth, a short-haired girl in trousers, an order of coffee and ham and eggs, a retired police detective. Will that do?

[thassalia.livejournal.com]

Sure!!

[monanotlisa.livejournal.com]

Oh, oh! Can I have a John & Chiana friendship drabble?

[rubberneck.livejournal.com]

Inara and Aeryn, downtime during Citrine, maybe Inara rubbing out a knot in Aeryn's shoulder in the galley as the tea brews, because she's good at that kind of thing, it's what she does, it's how she fits into Serenity's crew, how she's come to maintain the people as Kaylee maintains the ship, with a listening touch and reflection and the occasional kick in the pants. Talking about professionalism and vocation perhaps, or maybe making fun of Jayne.

[thassalia.livejournal.com]

I love you utterly, but I've deliberately left Inara out of Citrine because she baffles me. But let me see what I can do:) Maybe it'll inspire me to include her:)

[jenlev.livejournal.com]

i love the cadence in the description of the sandwiches. the resonance of their loss, the way they all are so very much themselves is wonderful.
~~~~~
this is utterly delightfully *them*. and this: ""Trust the lot of you to end up with a religious fanatic magnetized to a commerce station wall." is perfect.
~~~~
ah, this is beyond intriguing, and peels back a layer of potential that catches in a lovely way.
~~~~
as does this. exquisite the way all their edges clatter up against each other.
~~~~
oh, and this is remarkable: "But somewhere between self-sacrifice and self-preservation she'd found calm, found silence and stillness and watchfullness. It was discomfiting, disconcerting." and i think you've hit that just right.
~~~
i love that daniel tried, and this makes that even better: "Jackson smiles sourly. "I can't think of everything. She's apparently a whiz at Photoshop." heh, but poignant too. all those things for her to learn as she settles in. the last paragraph of of this section is more than perfect.
~~~~
and oh, aeryn and D. and all of them still there: "The sense of dislocation is nearly overwhelming, but when she lays down on the bed, her husband rucked up to her back, child curled in her arms, she still senses the motion of flight and the pattern of stars, can close her eyes in the dark."

that's quite beautiful.

[thassalia.livejournal.com]

Thank you dear:) Hugs you for going through each and every one of them:)

[jenlev.livejournal.com]

ah, but it is very much a pleasure to read them all. and seeing them together like that makes me feel as if i'm examining a gemstone...looking at all the facets and thinking about all the characters revealed. :)

[kernezelda]

*hugs Thea*

Thank you for mine. It's a tired, gritty scene, with John's half-hostility and Boomer so lost, Pilot's compassion and also his maintaining separation. It feels like they've all been through so very much. Very well done.

[thassalia.livejournal.com]

Hugs you back. I'm very glad you liked it.

[elliejane.livejournal.com]

Each is a gem, whilst also illustrating angles I had never thought of.

This possibly is my favourite line, and made my eyes go a little watery.

But it's River who holds her gaze, who moves with youthful grace and couched awareness, who looks at Zoe with knowledge, and with honesty, who can say, "I'm sorry he's gone," and mean only that.

[thassalia.livejournal.com]

Ah, thank you!!

[kazbaby]

Darn, I'm late to the game and I had a good idea too. hehe

I really enjoyed all of these. You have a real talent for making the voices come alive Thea.

[thassalia.livejournal.com]

Thanks hon. And throw out your idea. If I'm not exhausted, I'll see if I can address it.

[kazbaby]

I've always wanted to see a drabble based on this picture.

If you can, great! If not, I totally understand. *hug*

[cofax7]

Oh, hon, these are fantastic. You're so great.

[thassalia.livejournal.com]

Ahh, blushes. Thank you!!!

[minnow1212.livejournal.com]

These are lovely--I'm especially drawn to the Kaylee voice in the Firefly/Farscape one.

And Sam and Donna! I just watched the last two episodes after not watching for several years, and I am all aglow with nostalgia now.

[thassalia.livejournal.com]

Thank you!!

The Kaylee voice is entirely a result of where things stand in the larger story this will be part of, so I'm particularly glad it works on it's own:)

And I was very pleased with the Sam and Donna piece because trust DenyE to offer the perfect prompt.

[medie]

these are absolutely perfect...

Just great pictures into every world and the crossovers are *FANTASTIC*

[thassalia.livejournal.com]

Thank you so much!!

[raithen.livejournal.com]

almost a year later, I realize I never commented.

it's lovely, of course. :D.

[thassalia.livejournal.com]

No worries dear:) I love getting feedback on old stuff:)