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anotherusedpage...so, here we go with the advent fic!
No warnings on this one.
River likes it when they all sit around the table, together. It feels like family. At least, it feels nothing like the family she remembers, but there’s something right about it. At home it was all no elbows on the table and chopsticks are there for a reason, only no one actually said it because no one ever had to, because no one’s elbows ever were on the table, and no one’s chopsticks were ever abandoned in favour of fingers. River remembers sitting with her back stiff, stiff and straight, and making polite conversation, and being surrounded by love, a different kind of love, and wanting to get back to her books. ¬No books at the table. That was a naughtiness reserved all for her. Simon never read at the table, although his eating habits were sometimes less neat than hers.
Simon eats with his fingers, now, sometimes, or drinks soup straight from the can, and he reaches across the table to take what he wants, sometimes, although he looks embarrassed when he does it. Jayne talks with his mouth full, taking pleasure in Simon’s grimaces of disgust. Kaylee talks with her mouth full, too, but only when she forgets, or when she’s sure Simon’s back is turned, or else when she’s very excited about something. They’re all bursting with things to say. It’s nothing. Nothing important, just words and noise, and it makes River smile. She feels all wrapped up in the stories of the day. There’s nothing polite about this kind of conversation. And it envelopes her, like this new sort of love that she can only describe as family, and that makes her nervous. The semantic fields of the words have changed, or maybe it’s just River that’s changed. She rocks, hums to herself, trying to drown out the implications, because music never changes, even if now she can hum at the dinner table now, because dinner doesn’t mean the same thing any more.
She remembers stilted conversation. Simon still has meal-time awkwardness about him, but the rest of them, they all have things to say. Wash talks animatedly, telling the day as a heroic story, as though they hadn’t all been there and seen for themselves. Wash makes it into a story, and they claim the story as their identity, and it becomes part of them, part of the ship, because that’s what the ship’s about, the stories that they tell about themselves when the gunfire is over. Jayne interrupts Wash, insults him, an attempt to claim the story for himself. Wash throws a hunk of bread at his head, and carries on with his story, and River giggles into her food. Jayne glowers, but falls silent. Brute force doesn’t win a battle of words, and anyway, the bread is too precious to waste. Kaylee takes it from where it’s fallen, claims it for herself. Jayne looks like he might complain; it’s his bread by rights, it ain’t fair that Kaylee should eat it when it’s him as was hit by it, and if Wash gets to claim the story then the least Jayne wants is ammunition. But taking food from a girl is beyond him, at the dinner table anyway. It’s a family thing. He refills Kaylee’s glass without her having to ask, and only River notices.
Kaylee talks with the ship’s voice, or perhaps the ship tells its stories through Kaylee. Today, they are cruising nicely, everything’s ship-shape, and Kaylee is all energy and smiles, bubbling and bouncy. It spills out of her, lighting up the dining room and making the flowers grow. Inara tells people their own stories back to them, reflects Kaylee back at herself, beautiful and strong and sensual. Kaylee can’t see past the engine oil on her own hands, but Inara shows her a thousand shades of brown in her own hair.
Zoe tells stories with her hands and her eyes. She’s watching Mal, but her hands brush Wash’s whenever she passes something to him. Her back is straight, but it’s not the same kind of straight, not elbows off the table straight, but calm in the line of fire straight. River can read old stories in the line of her back, but she’s not going to, not tonight, because those stories are old and dark, they scream and burn.
Mal doesn’t say anything at all; his stories are tightly locked inside. Simon wears his stories on his sleeve, but only River knows how to read them. The others see only stiffness and pride, but River remembers the days of waiting, the anxious tension, the bursts of action, the story that should never have been Simon’s, should never have been hers. Simon’s story is all fear and uncertainty, and the prize is broken.
The Shepherd bows his head, and mutters whispered words, telling stories of long ago. They do not fall silent for him; these are not stories that can be heard here and now. Mal has locked them up inside, and the crew follow Mal. Their faith is strong. The Shepherd knows it, and the whispered words come from his heart.
No one understands the stories that River tells, either. The words spill out, all out of order, jumbled. The words are still there, clear in black and white, but she cannot make sense of them, as if the pages of a book have been ripped out and scattered on the breeze. I tore the pages out of your symbol and they turned into paper. Words out of place are only words, and they pour out of River, and she knows that she is not making any sense, not telling the story that she is living, not telling any story at all. Like apple pieces, not making up a whole apple. She has devoured the apple from the tree of knowledge, and now it’s all in pieces, floating around in her mind, formless as music. A different kind of knowledge, to go with her new kind of family, anarchic and strange.
She can hear every story that Serenity has to tell. They are staring at her now, and she realises she’s talking, talking as though her life depended on it, trying to remember how to tell stories again, to create order in the formless chaotic patterns of day to day life, and it’s not that the words won’t come, she can’t stop them from coming, but they tumble over each other, unstructured, incapable of keeping the chaos at bay.
With an effort of will, she makes the voice which has to be hers fall silent. Simon is in pain. Mal’s face is curiously open, for a flash of a moment, she wonders if he mightn’t miraculously understand.
No power in the verse can stop me, River thinks desperately. Gradually, the others get back to talking, to telling their own stories. She listens to the words, listens to what goes on beneath the words, and tries not to let her own, desperate, unheard stories get in the way.
The time for her stories has not yet come. But when it does, when she can put them back together again, River knows that the stories in her head will change the world.
****
Fandom: Firefly
Disclaimer: Joss is God. I'll almost certainly give them back in much better condition than he leaves them.
AN: This is (fairly obviously) set pre-Serenity.
No warnings on this one.
River likes it when they all sit around the table, together. It feels like family. At least, it feels nothing like the family she remembers, but there’s something right about it. At home it was all no elbows on the table and chopsticks are there for a reason, only no one actually said it because no one ever had to, because no one’s elbows ever were on the table, and no one’s chopsticks were ever abandoned in favour of fingers. River remembers sitting with her back stiff, stiff and straight, and making polite conversation, and being surrounded by love, a different kind of love, and wanting to get back to her books. ¬No books at the table. That was a naughtiness reserved all for her. Simon never read at the table, although his eating habits were sometimes less neat than hers.
Simon eats with his fingers, now, sometimes, or drinks soup straight from the can, and he reaches across the table to take what he wants, sometimes, although he looks embarrassed when he does it. Jayne talks with his mouth full, taking pleasure in Simon’s grimaces of disgust. Kaylee talks with her mouth full, too, but only when she forgets, or when she’s sure Simon’s back is turned, or else when she’s very excited about something. They’re all bursting with things to say. It’s nothing. Nothing important, just words and noise, and it makes River smile. She feels all wrapped up in the stories of the day. There’s nothing polite about this kind of conversation. And it envelopes her, like this new sort of love that she can only describe as family, and that makes her nervous. The semantic fields of the words have changed, or maybe it’s just River that’s changed. She rocks, hums to herself, trying to drown out the implications, because music never changes, even if now she can hum at the dinner table now, because dinner doesn’t mean the same thing any more.
She remembers stilted conversation. Simon still has meal-time awkwardness about him, but the rest of them, they all have things to say. Wash talks animatedly, telling the day as a heroic story, as though they hadn’t all been there and seen for themselves. Wash makes it into a story, and they claim the story as their identity, and it becomes part of them, part of the ship, because that’s what the ship’s about, the stories that they tell about themselves when the gunfire is over. Jayne interrupts Wash, insults him, an attempt to claim the story for himself. Wash throws a hunk of bread at his head, and carries on with his story, and River giggles into her food. Jayne glowers, but falls silent. Brute force doesn’t win a battle of words, and anyway, the bread is too precious to waste. Kaylee takes it from where it’s fallen, claims it for herself. Jayne looks like he might complain; it’s his bread by rights, it ain’t fair that Kaylee should eat it when it’s him as was hit by it, and if Wash gets to claim the story then the least Jayne wants is ammunition. But taking food from a girl is beyond him, at the dinner table anyway. It’s a family thing. He refills Kaylee’s glass without her having to ask, and only River notices.
Kaylee talks with the ship’s voice, or perhaps the ship tells its stories through Kaylee. Today, they are cruising nicely, everything’s ship-shape, and Kaylee is all energy and smiles, bubbling and bouncy. It spills out of her, lighting up the dining room and making the flowers grow. Inara tells people their own stories back to them, reflects Kaylee back at herself, beautiful and strong and sensual. Kaylee can’t see past the engine oil on her own hands, but Inara shows her a thousand shades of brown in her own hair.
Zoe tells stories with her hands and her eyes. She’s watching Mal, but her hands brush Wash’s whenever she passes something to him. Her back is straight, but it’s not the same kind of straight, not elbows off the table straight, but calm in the line of fire straight. River can read old stories in the line of her back, but she’s not going to, not tonight, because those stories are old and dark, they scream and burn.
Mal doesn’t say anything at all; his stories are tightly locked inside. Simon wears his stories on his sleeve, but only River knows how to read them. The others see only stiffness and pride, but River remembers the days of waiting, the anxious tension, the bursts of action, the story that should never have been Simon’s, should never have been hers. Simon’s story is all fear and uncertainty, and the prize is broken.
The Shepherd bows his head, and mutters whispered words, telling stories of long ago. They do not fall silent for him; these are not stories that can be heard here and now. Mal has locked them up inside, and the crew follow Mal. Their faith is strong. The Shepherd knows it, and the whispered words come from his heart.
No one understands the stories that River tells, either. The words spill out, all out of order, jumbled. The words are still there, clear in black and white, but she cannot make sense of them, as if the pages of a book have been ripped out and scattered on the breeze. I tore the pages out of your symbol and they turned into paper. Words out of place are only words, and they pour out of River, and she knows that she is not making any sense, not telling the story that she is living, not telling any story at all. Like apple pieces, not making up a whole apple. She has devoured the apple from the tree of knowledge, and now it’s all in pieces, floating around in her mind, formless as music. A different kind of knowledge, to go with her new kind of family, anarchic and strange.
She can hear every story that Serenity has to tell. They are staring at her now, and she realises she’s talking, talking as though her life depended on it, trying to remember how to tell stories again, to create order in the formless chaotic patterns of day to day life, and it’s not that the words won’t come, she can’t stop them from coming, but they tumble over each other, unstructured, incapable of keeping the chaos at bay.
With an effort of will, she makes the voice which has to be hers fall silent. Simon is in pain. Mal’s face is curiously open, for a flash of a moment, she wonders if he mightn’t miraculously understand.
No power in the verse can stop me, River thinks desperately. Gradually, the others get back to talking, to telling their own stories. She listens to the words, listens to what goes on beneath the words, and tries not to let her own, desperate, unheard stories get in the way.
The time for her stories has not yet come. But when it does, when she can put them back together again, River knows that the stories in her head will change the world.
****
Fandom: Firefly
Disclaimer: Joss is God. I'll almost certainly give them back in much better condition than he leaves them.
AN: This is (fairly obviously) set pre-Serenity.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2005-12-01 04:08 pm (UTC)I love your advent calender :D
Huge congrats on your dissertation.
no subject
Date: 2005-12-01 05:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-12-01 05:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-12-01 05:45 pm (UTC)And eee, Jayne.
Such a lovely scene. *beams at you*
no subject
Date: 2005-12-01 05:55 pm (UTC)*bounce bounce bounce*
no subject
Date: 2005-12-01 06:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-12-01 06:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-12-01 06:04 pm (UTC)And dammit, this almost makes me want to try the advent fic thing, now I'm done nano. But I don't think I have that many plot bunnies at this point... Hmmm.
no subject
Date: 2005-12-02 11:16 am (UTC)Go on, try advent! You don't really need a plot-bunny for a vignette, just a set of characters that are prepared to sit in a room for you to watch them dance. Some people do advent with drabbles, but I'd find that harder than 1000ish word fics.
no subject
Date: 2005-12-01 06:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-12-02 11:20 am (UTC)the stories of them all and their familiness is what is Firefly for me
Yes, me too.
no subject
Date: 2005-12-01 09:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-12-02 11:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-12-02 02:33 pm (UTC)im thinking of doing an advent drabble, just so that i have! to write, and i acutally get some practice. couldnt post them though. couldnt do it now anyway, too much work to do. but i could do a non advent one, just do a week or month of drabbly bits
no subject
Date: 2005-12-02 02:42 pm (UTC)