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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"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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