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Feb. 21st, 2006 01:42 amRiver hovers in the doorway to the kitchen, tucked behind the doorframe.
Zoe's making tea, rummaging through a drawer with one hand resting absently on her ever-growing stomach. She hasn't noticed River yet.
--Until she turns to her sharply, eyes fierce. "I've seen what life is like, out here," she informs River, voice low and intense. "Have you?" The hand on her belly is less absent now, more protective, and her brown eyes blaze--
Except the world jitters and Zoe's just digging through a drawer full of tea canisters, head bent, face calm. She hasn't noticed River.
River's face twists, and she turns away, closing her eyes on sudden pricking tears.
The whisper of pages turning, down the corridor; a faint susurration, like a chuckle heard from far away. She doesn't need to look to know no one's there.
Blindly, she steps away, eyes opening when she lurches and stumbles over nothing. Down the corridor -- it sways like a frigate's deck, rhythmic swoops, but with one hand sliding against the wall she manages to keep her balance -- and onto a catwalk in the cargo deck. This is steady, the grating beneath her feet, the vines which are really railing-wires beneath her palms. Down the stairs, bare feet quick and sure. The cargo bay blurs before her, but it doesn't matter.
Jayne's got a box, heavy and webbing-wrapped; the muscles on his arms stand out with the effort of lugging it. "Move outta the way, Stabby," he grunts. "I ain't got time to make a detour for your dear and fluffy self, now do I?"
River skitters sideways, face twisting, as the room stutters and Jayne glances at her over the top of the box, noticing her for the first time. A grunt that could be greeting, with some imagination, and then he looks closer. "Hey, y'all right?" He doesn't bother to wait for an answer, and she doesn't give one anyway -- she's moving on, fleeing up the other set of stairs (they're marble, now, old and dust-covered) and up towards the passenger quarters.
Through the common area outside the infirmary -- empty, mercifully, and she doesn't look at the
(needles glinting, steel knives sharp as a molecule and cold sterile light refracting from bluewhiteblue)
infirmary window -- and then to her room. She has to catch herself against the wall to open the door, and she can feel -- she's not there, not looking, door's shut and walls but she can feel Kaylee's arms around her waist, Simon's arms around her shoulders, two people holding each other tight, and the glittering of lamps through tears in the corners of her eyes looks like Christmas lights -- and then her fumbling hand hits the right spot and her door unlatches.
She shoves it open, too hard, misjudging, and stumbles through, pushing it shut again after.
She doesn't bother to change clothes before she drops onto the bed, curling up in a tiny fetal ball, and turns her face to the pillow to cry.
The worst part about a respite is that it goes away.
The worst part about a respite is that, afterwards, you can't even quite remember how it felt; all you know is that it was better, and now it's lost.
And that makes everything even worse.
Zoe's making tea, rummaging through a drawer with one hand resting absently on her ever-growing stomach. She hasn't noticed River yet.
--Until she turns to her sharply, eyes fierce. "I've seen what life is like, out here," she informs River, voice low and intense. "Have you?" The hand on her belly is less absent now, more protective, and her brown eyes blaze--
Except the world jitters and Zoe's just digging through a drawer full of tea canisters, head bent, face calm. She hasn't noticed River.
River's face twists, and she turns away, closing her eyes on sudden pricking tears.
The whisper of pages turning, down the corridor; a faint susurration, like a chuckle heard from far away. She doesn't need to look to know no one's there.
Blindly, she steps away, eyes opening when she lurches and stumbles over nothing. Down the corridor -- it sways like a frigate's deck, rhythmic swoops, but with one hand sliding against the wall she manages to keep her balance -- and onto a catwalk in the cargo deck. This is steady, the grating beneath her feet, the vines which are really railing-wires beneath her palms. Down the stairs, bare feet quick and sure. The cargo bay blurs before her, but it doesn't matter.
Jayne's got a box, heavy and webbing-wrapped; the muscles on his arms stand out with the effort of lugging it. "Move outta the way, Stabby," he grunts. "I ain't got time to make a detour for your dear and fluffy self, now do I?"
River skitters sideways, face twisting, as the room stutters and Jayne glances at her over the top of the box, noticing her for the first time. A grunt that could be greeting, with some imagination, and then he looks closer. "Hey, y'all right?" He doesn't bother to wait for an answer, and she doesn't give one anyway -- she's moving on, fleeing up the other set of stairs (they're marble, now, old and dust-covered) and up towards the passenger quarters.
Through the common area outside the infirmary -- empty, mercifully, and she doesn't look at the
(needles glinting, steel knives sharp as a molecule and cold sterile light refracting from bluewhiteblue)
infirmary window -- and then to her room. She has to catch herself against the wall to open the door, and she can feel -- she's not there, not looking, door's shut and walls but she can feel Kaylee's arms around her waist, Simon's arms around her shoulders, two people holding each other tight, and the glittering of lamps through tears in the corners of her eyes looks like Christmas lights -- and then her fumbling hand hits the right spot and her door unlatches.
She shoves it open, too hard, misjudging, and stumbles through, pushing it shut again after.
She doesn't bother to change clothes before she drops onto the bed, curling up in a tiny fetal ball, and turns her face to the pillow to cry.
The worst part about a respite is that it goes away.
The worst part about a respite is that, afterwards, you can't even quite remember how it felt; all you know is that it was better, and now it's lost.
And that makes everything even worse.
