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deathpixie) wrote2006-01-21 08:56 pm
deathpixie) wrote2006-01-21 08:56 pm
Entry tags:
Mprov fic number 3
Taking another stab at this one, since I didn't like the first attempt. And I had a much better idea. :)
Fandom: Firefly
Characters: Wash, Zoe.
Rating: PG
For [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com], who gave me the prompts "shoelace", '"surprise", and "picnic".
Summary: "The first time I met Zoe, she frisked me..." "Our Mrs. Reynolds".
***
To the untrained eye, the ship was a pile of gossa - a clapped-out rusting heap of spare parts, no flash. But to anyone who knew ships...
"Interesting. Very interesting."
Hoban Washburn - "Wash" to those who knew him - stroked his moustache unconsciously as he examined Serenity. She needed some work, true - the aft stabilisers were on their way out, and the primary buffer panel was a nasty surprise waiting to happen - but once she was airborne... well, any pilot worth his flight suit could do just about anything with her. Anything at all. And by all accounts, the owner was in desperate need of a pilot. Wash could pretty much name his price.
It had been a couple of weeks since he'd quit flying for Tanaka. Might be worth a closer look.
No-one answered his initial hail, asking for permission to come aboard, but as he entered the hold a sleepy-looking blonde man appeared. He wore only cargo shorts and some interesting chest tattoos and in the blissed-out tones of someone who'd been indulging in more than tobacco, he informed Wash that the captain was 'hereabouts somewhere', that of course he was welcome to look around, and that if Wash had anything like a Fruity Oaty Bar on him, Bester (for that was the guy's name) would be rather grateful. To the extent of naming Wash a 'righteous dude' and possibly having sex with him.
Unfortunately there were no Fruity Oaty Bars to be had, and Bester shambled off cheerfully in the direction of the galley, Wash surmised. Leaving Wash to, well, look around. There had been obviously recent attempts to clean out and repair the hold, he noted, including the shiny new control panel for the docking bay. Up would lead to the cockpit, which was what he was most interested in, and so Wash climbed the stairs, taking notes in his head as he went. Smaller than Tanaka's ship, but not cramped, plenty of bunks available to crew. It seemed that besides the captain and Wash's new friend Bester, there was only one other person on board. Well, the right combination of people could make living together on a small ship work. Now, up there would be the cockpit...
His shoelace was flapping and Wash paused in order to tie it. But before he could, someone slammed into him, pushing him firmly into the corridor wall between two of the crew bunk entrances. The metal was cold against his face and a strong hand pinioned one arm somewhere in the middle of his back, whilst a knee pushed into his legs and stopped him from kicking backwards. If it had occurred to him to do so.
"Ow?" he said, wondering if perhaps taking Bester's word as good had been possibly foolish. He was answered by the cold muzzle of a gun against his cheek, and a woman's voice:
"Name and business on this ship. Now." There was no 'or else I'll fill you full of holes', or another equally violent and ungrammatical threat - she didn't need to. Her voice was as firm and as no-nonsense as her grip, obviously military. But it was also low and sultry, the vocal equivalent of smoky honey and good Scotch and her hand, whilst causing his shoulder no small amount of pain, was strong and supple. To judge from where her voice was coming from and the slightest hint of her breath on his face, she was as tall as he was. Maybe taller.
Woah, mama.
"Are you the captain?" he asked, pulse pounding in his ears from more than fear. The only reply was the click of the gun being cocked and he swallowed, hard. "Hoban Washburn, but they call me Wash. I'm a pilot," he babbled, certain he was going to die and finding his greatest regret was not seeing her face - Wash had always had a thing for strong women. Well, more of an obsession, really. Unfortunately, strong women also tended to look like a month of bad space, but you couldn't have everything...
"And what are you doing, prowling around on this boat, Mr Washburn?" Her voice cut through his internal babble and he shivered despite himself as her breath tickled the back of his neck.
"I heard tell there was a job going, so I thought I'd drop by, meet with the captain, take a look around. Bester said it would be shiny..."
"Bester." The note of resigned disgust spoke volumes. Libraries, even. The gun was removed from its intimate relationship with his cheek and he allowed himself a sigh of relief. Until she spoke again, at least.
"Weapons?"
"No, thank you, I already ate," he replied, unable to stop himself. There was a noise, something like a snort, and he found himself tasting the wall as she pushed him harder against it. Hmm, metallic tang.
"Have you got any... never mind. Hands flat against the wall, feet shoulder width apart." He nodded as best he was able, and the grip was released from his arm. Which was just as well since his shoulder was going numb in that not-fun 'white-hot needles of pain' kind of way. He barely got his hands in the required position before a booted foot was nudging his feet a little further apart and those hands - those strong, supple, graceful hands with elegantly long fingers and warm brown skin, he noted - were running along his arms, down his sides.
"Eeee, tickles!" he squeaked, most unmanfully, jumping a little. He was answered by a thwap to the back of the head and a firmer pressure as she frisked the rest of him, chest, back, legs... If she noticed the embarrassing bulge in his pants, she didn't say anything.
"Turn around," she said at last, apparently satisfied that the only weapon Wash was carrying was his bizarre sense of humour.
Heart in his throat, he did.
Woahmamawoahmamawoahmamawoahmama...
"...no weapons, so I'll take you to the captain," she was saying when his brain was capable of comprehending speech. All he could focus on was her perfect, perfect face, those lips, that hair, those eyes... Well, maybe he could focus on the rest too, only he was going to do that when she wasn't noticing. This woman, he had no doubt at all, could kill him with her pinkie. And he'd probably die happy. Then she was frowning at him, irritated: "What are you staring at?"
"Nothing!" he replied, defensive as a small boy caught with his hands in the cookie jar. He wished he'd worn the nicer Hawaiian shirt, the one with the blue parrots. "Nothing at all! Captain, you say? Sounds great, let's go! Always best to meet the captain of the boat you're thinking of flying, don't you think...?"
She rolled her eyes, and motioned with the sawn-off shotgun still in her hands for him to go first in the direction of the cockpit. "After you."
"Certainly! Always happy to follow order, me!" He started off, then stopped and turned so suddenly she nearly ran into him. She moved like some kind of jungle cat, all sinuous grace. "Can I ask one thing?"
"Go ahead," she said, watching him warily.
"What's your name?"
For the longest time it seemed she wouldn't reply, and then, briefly: "Zoe." Another gesture with the gun. "Move."
"Zoe," he said, tasting the name, trying the sound of it out. It suited her, a poem of a name, no, more a haiku. Oh, he could write poetry for this one, he really could. He pictured them together on a picnic, her head in his lap whilst he read to her the Japanese poems he loved so much. I am a leaf on the wind...
Wash's tread was almost a skip as he climbed the steps of the cockpit. He had to have this job. There was nothing else for it.
Fandom: Firefly
Characters: Wash, Zoe.
Rating: PG
For [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com], who gave me the prompts "shoelace", '"surprise", and "picnic".
Summary: "The first time I met Zoe, she frisked me..." "Our Mrs. Reynolds".
***
To the untrained eye, the ship was a pile of gossa - a clapped-out rusting heap of spare parts, no flash. But to anyone who knew ships...
"Interesting. Very interesting."
Hoban Washburn - "Wash" to those who knew him - stroked his moustache unconsciously as he examined Serenity. She needed some work, true - the aft stabilisers were on their way out, and the primary buffer panel was a nasty surprise waiting to happen - but once she was airborne... well, any pilot worth his flight suit could do just about anything with her. Anything at all. And by all accounts, the owner was in desperate need of a pilot. Wash could pretty much name his price.
It had been a couple of weeks since he'd quit flying for Tanaka. Might be worth a closer look.
No-one answered his initial hail, asking for permission to come aboard, but as he entered the hold a sleepy-looking blonde man appeared. He wore only cargo shorts and some interesting chest tattoos and in the blissed-out tones of someone who'd been indulging in more than tobacco, he informed Wash that the captain was 'hereabouts somewhere', that of course he was welcome to look around, and that if Wash had anything like a Fruity Oaty Bar on him, Bester (for that was the guy's name) would be rather grateful. To the extent of naming Wash a 'righteous dude' and possibly having sex with him.
Unfortunately there were no Fruity Oaty Bars to be had, and Bester shambled off cheerfully in the direction of the galley, Wash surmised. Leaving Wash to, well, look around. There had been obviously recent attempts to clean out and repair the hold, he noted, including the shiny new control panel for the docking bay. Up would lead to the cockpit, which was what he was most interested in, and so Wash climbed the stairs, taking notes in his head as he went. Smaller than Tanaka's ship, but not cramped, plenty of bunks available to crew. It seemed that besides the captain and Wash's new friend Bester, there was only one other person on board. Well, the right combination of people could make living together on a small ship work. Now, up there would be the cockpit...
His shoelace was flapping and Wash paused in order to tie it. But before he could, someone slammed into him, pushing him firmly into the corridor wall between two of the crew bunk entrances. The metal was cold against his face and a strong hand pinioned one arm somewhere in the middle of his back, whilst a knee pushed into his legs and stopped him from kicking backwards. If it had occurred to him to do so.
"Ow?" he said, wondering if perhaps taking Bester's word as good had been possibly foolish. He was answered by the cold muzzle of a gun against his cheek, and a woman's voice:
"Name and business on this ship. Now." There was no 'or else I'll fill you full of holes', or another equally violent and ungrammatical threat - she didn't need to. Her voice was as firm and as no-nonsense as her grip, obviously military. But it was also low and sultry, the vocal equivalent of smoky honey and good Scotch and her hand, whilst causing his shoulder no small amount of pain, was strong and supple. To judge from where her voice was coming from and the slightest hint of her breath on his face, she was as tall as he was. Maybe taller.
Woah, mama.
"Are you the captain?" he asked, pulse pounding in his ears from more than fear. The only reply was the click of the gun being cocked and he swallowed, hard. "Hoban Washburn, but they call me Wash. I'm a pilot," he babbled, certain he was going to die and finding his greatest regret was not seeing her face - Wash had always had a thing for strong women. Well, more of an obsession, really. Unfortunately, strong women also tended to look like a month of bad space, but you couldn't have everything...
"And what are you doing, prowling around on this boat, Mr Washburn?" Her voice cut through his internal babble and he shivered despite himself as her breath tickled the back of his neck.
"I heard tell there was a job going, so I thought I'd drop by, meet with the captain, take a look around. Bester said it would be shiny..."
"Bester." The note of resigned disgust spoke volumes. Libraries, even. The gun was removed from its intimate relationship with his cheek and he allowed himself a sigh of relief. Until she spoke again, at least.
"Weapons?"
"No, thank you, I already ate," he replied, unable to stop himself. There was a noise, something like a snort, and he found himself tasting the wall as she pushed him harder against it. Hmm, metallic tang.
"Have you got any... never mind. Hands flat against the wall, feet shoulder width apart." He nodded as best he was able, and the grip was released from his arm. Which was just as well since his shoulder was going numb in that not-fun 'white-hot needles of pain' kind of way. He barely got his hands in the required position before a booted foot was nudging his feet a little further apart and those hands - those strong, supple, graceful hands with elegantly long fingers and warm brown skin, he noted - were running along his arms, down his sides.
"Eeee, tickles!" he squeaked, most unmanfully, jumping a little. He was answered by a thwap to the back of the head and a firmer pressure as she frisked the rest of him, chest, back, legs... If she noticed the embarrassing bulge in his pants, she didn't say anything.
"Turn around," she said at last, apparently satisfied that the only weapon Wash was carrying was his bizarre sense of humour.
Heart in his throat, he did.
Woahmamawoahmamawoahmamawoahmama...
"...no weapons, so I'll take you to the captain," she was saying when his brain was capable of comprehending speech. All he could focus on was her perfect, perfect face, those lips, that hair, those eyes... Well, maybe he could focus on the rest too, only he was going to do that when she wasn't noticing. This woman, he had no doubt at all, could kill him with her pinkie. And he'd probably die happy. Then she was frowning at him, irritated: "What are you staring at?"
"Nothing!" he replied, defensive as a small boy caught with his hands in the cookie jar. He wished he'd worn the nicer Hawaiian shirt, the one with the blue parrots. "Nothing at all! Captain, you say? Sounds great, let's go! Always best to meet the captain of the boat you're thinking of flying, don't you think...?"
She rolled her eyes, and motioned with the sawn-off shotgun still in her hands for him to go first in the direction of the cockpit. "After you."
"Certainly! Always happy to follow order, me!" He started off, then stopped and turned so suddenly she nearly ran into him. She moved like some kind of jungle cat, all sinuous grace. "Can I ask one thing?"
"Go ahead," she said, watching him warily.
"What's your name?"
For the longest time it seemed she wouldn't reply, and then, briefly: "Zoe." Another gesture with the gun. "Move."
"Zoe," he said, tasting the name, trying the sound of it out. It suited her, a poem of a name, no, more a haiku. Oh, he could write poetry for this one, he really could. He pictured them together on a picnic, her head in his lap whilst he read to her the Japanese poems he loved so much. I am a leaf on the wind...
Wash's tread was almost a skip as he climbed the steps of the cockpit. He had to have this job. There was nothing else for it.
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