river_meimei | (no subject)

(no subject)

River wakes early, some days. Not every day, but today's one of them.

Mornings are quiet on Serenity. Even though the chronology is all based on ship clocks, with no true pre-dawn hush, there's the silence of a ship whose crew is all still asleep in bunks and shuttles, behind closed doors. The engine turns; the life support runs; River's footsteps whisper against metal and rugs and tiles. That's all.

Serenity's on autopilot. The course is plotted in, and she knows how to fly herself, out here in the black.

So River's sitting in the copilot's seat, arms wrapped around her knees, ignoring the controls in favor of staring out at the stars.

All those tiny pinpricks of fierce light, impossibly white in the velvet darkness.

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It's probably meant to be a soft alert, but when the ship is in motion, thrusters firing, any number of chaotic things happening on the bridge, these things go unnoticed. The downside is that at times like this, it sounds at approximately the volume of a siren.

Incoming wave. Encrypted location. The light blinks at her invitingly.

River jumps, head whipping around, hands flying up in an abrupt startled jerk.

--Oh.

Carefully, she studies the winking light, the uninformative scrolling text, before she touches one hand to the volume control and taps the other against the RECEIVE WAVE button.

Whoever it is totally wants River Tam as ship's receptionist, right?

Of course they do!

The screen blinks to life, displaying a rather tasteless parlor that's heavy on dust, velvet, and plastic painted to look like wood. After a moment a familiar face slides cautiously into view. He looks relieved when he sees who's answered.

"River," Raguel says, pleased. "Been looking for you."

River may not be precisely pleased to be ship's receptionist any more.

She's tenser now; her hands have wrapped around her ankles again, and her back is straight.

"Hi," she says, carefully.

Beyond the copilot controls, the stars glitter through the window: constellations, remote and perfect.

He looks somewhat guarded himself; or maybe awkward, it's hard to tell.

"Things are good?" he asks. "I mean, is everyone... I saw you landed at Santo for a while."

Not that he was watching, or anything. No need to get paranoid.

Of course not.

River's eyes sharpen for an instant, all the same.

(But she remembers--
Eloi, eloi, sabachthani
It doesn't matter in the slightest, except in the ways it does.)

"We're okay," she says.

"Periodic recalibrations. Call it a vacation."

"Oh," he says, "vacation." He casts a surreptitious glance at his surroundings - well, to him it might be surreptitious - and back. There's a flash of something like guilt.

"I'm not. Work to do here, you know."

River's head tilts fractionally; her gaze sharpens, just a tiny bit more.

"Do I?"

(You called me to my Purpose--)

Things change. And things don't.

"Yeah, you probably do," he says without thinking. "I mean. Do you? Yes."

He bows his head momentarily, confused.

"It's not the same," he says finally, still a little uncertain. "Can't be."

"I do," River says, after a moment, "my work." Every syllable is careful; River has to work to choose her words, and even when she does they don't always come out right.

It's hard to read her tone: not exactly accusation, not exactly friendliness.

"Okay," he says after another moment's confusion. "Your work. Guess we all gotta."

There's a distant sound of gunfire - it could be something else, but it's probably gunfire - somewhere on his end of the link, but he doesn't bother turning.

"How's T-- your dad?" he asks abruptly.

It's hard to tell, with Raguel, what's actually concern, and how it's meant. Especially through a vidscreen.

River's shoulders tense a little, and under the controls her fingers twitch and shift against her skirt and ankles. But her voice is low and not as unfriendly as it could be -- as it has been -- when she says, "He's okay."

"Better. In the relative calibration."

He's working again. River knows Simon's worries, knows or can guess her mother's, but -- well.

Stubbornness is a family trait.

"Are you?" she asks, abruptly in her turn, and it's hard to tell whether it's courtesy or accusation; maybe even she's not sure.

"Good," he says, "that's good," and seems to mean it.

"Don't think he likes me coming around, so." He gestures at the vid screen between them. "Even though I said it would be fine."

Duh, Gabriel.

It doesn't escape him that she tenses, especially when she blurts out the question. He shrugs; it's more of a ripple than a lift of the shoulders, but the intent is the same.

"'M always okay. Better, though - better than what? Better than I used to be?" He laughs, and it looks like it takes some effort to stop.

"Better believe it."

"Gets nervous," River says, softly.

As you do, when the DEMON WHO VERY NEARLY KILLED YOU stops by your house for a pleasant chat.

"You're not a diplomat."

She watches this laughter, listens, and the sober observing wariness that tightens her face is ever-so-slightly different than it used to be. The anger's gone, or mostly; it makes the understanding that was always there just a bit clearer to see.

"I know," she says softly, to the end.

He grins sharply at the observation: "I'm not," he agrees. "But. You think that would help?"

Raguel seems doubtful; he doesn't ask the question out of any real hope that he'd get there in the next hundred years, anyway.

"You know," he repeats, and tilts his head. "Lots of things."

He looks at her inquiringly. The gunshots go off again, a little closer.

River shrugs, to the first question.

Probably, but it doesn't seem a skill Raguel's likely to acquire to any useful degree in time to do any currently living mortals any good.

To the second, she studies him. (She ignores the gunshots too.) "Yes," she says.

She doesn't shrug again, but there's a hint of one in her tone. Self-deprecating, or the very ghost of a question.

"Yes," he says again. He doesn't mean to echo everything she says, but sometimes it's easier than finding his own words. He studies her again, frowning.

"Something's different," he finally says, exasperated. "Can usually tell - sure it's okay?"

It's, he's, they're, you're.

"I am."

Beat.

Quieter, "I'm sure."

Your semi-boss gave me a psychic infodump of his perspective on the Fall and its assorted catalysts the other day, that's all, is something River wouldn't say even if it were remotely diplomatic. For many reasons.

"Okay," he says, relenting slightly. Something is still weird, though. He shakes his head as though to clear it, and right on cue the guns start up again. They sound like they're in the next room.

"Have, uh. Have you talked to Crowley?" he asks, awkward again.

River hesitates, unsure.

"Sometimes."

In other words: not recently, no.

Her eyes flick to the side of the screen -- where gunfire's coming from, though nothing's visible but Raguel's face and the shabby wall behind him.

"Duck," she adds, just as a suggestion.

"Yeah," he says, nodding, "talks to me sometimes, too. Should have gone over there, but you know." He jerks his head in the direction of the noise.

"Business."

He is apparently nearing the end of his patience with this fight; he waves a hand and there's a slam that's much louder than the shots were. There's the sound now of muffled shouting.

"Why?"

River's gaze flickers sideways again at that abrupt slam, but the viewscreen continues to be unhelpful.

"Oh, uh." For the first time he affects an interest in the shouts outside the room, but it's clearly just an excuse to look away.

"Usually get him a beer or something, this time of year. You should wave him, maybe," he exclaims, as though he'd just thought of it.

River's visibly confused.

But a little concerned, too.

"I don't drink beer," she says.

And then, hesitantly, "Okay?"

Raguel is appropriately horrified.

"You don't?" he asks, crestfallen, then seems to gather himself. "Well, uh. Don't need to. Just a wave."

He tilts his head at her again. "I'm always okay," he repeats. Of course, she may not be. No beer. That can't be good for you.

Yeah, nothing's more healthful than alcohol plus anti-psychotic medications!

"...You can buy it," River suggests, with a certain if you care that much undertone.

"It's a raincheck."

Raguel's growing more visibly distracted, but at her words he focuses back on the viewscreen, hard.

"Yeah," he says, "raincheck."

He sits back in whatever passes for a chair there, looking satisfied. From offscreen, there's a splintering sound.

"So, um. Will you talk to him? Soon?"

River has a lot of disagreements with this version of Raguel.

Caring about Crowley, though, isn't one of them.

She nods, after a moment.

Raguel beams at her.

"Good, okay. He'll be - yeah. So I'll just."

He gestures over toward the sound of (ever louder) banging and shouting, and stands.

"See you. I won't forget," he promises, tapping his temple. There's a resounding crash and he glances to the side, where the gunshots and shouting - all of it very rude - have suddenly become much more immediate.

"Raincheck," he adds, and turns away. The sounds become confused; the picture on the screen turns to static, then goes blank.

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