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11 May 2008 @ 08:55 pm
Sallie is turning seventy, and despite her best efforts and intentions, most people seemed to actually remember this. What made her actually forgive her son’s constant repetition of the date and insisting they ‘do something together’ for it in a way he hasn’t since he was a child was where they were going.

“Why Persephone?” Sallie asks. She remembers the Shepherd that traveled with Malcolm for so long; there are others he knows on that planet, sure, but none that she really thought --

“It’s pretty is all, Ma. Don’t start with me.”

It is pretty, no denying it -- the grounds of the monastery are well-groomed in such a way as not to overpower the purpose of the area in the first place; a hard balance to strike.

“You remember Andronicus, Ma?”

The coal-black hair is the first thing Sallie’s eyes are drawn to, far more than the elegant suit and tie. The figure is...imposing, a fact the old woman is certain Andronicus is aware of.

“Of course. A pleasure to finally meet you -- my apologies it has taken us this long.” Though why we’re meeting you on my birthday is beyond my comprehension...

“Likewise, Mrs. Reynolds. Captain Reynolds has given me the distinct impression that there are far better things you have to do with your day here, so I’ll keep this brief, if you don’t mind.”

“Brief isn’t necessary, so much as explanatory,” she cracks a smile and means it. She’s in no rush.

“That’s fine. I am told you have no current second in line for general manager of your ranch. That is a very precarious position for your business to remain in, Mrs. Reynolds.” Before Sallie could shoot a death glare at her son, Andronicus raises a hand to stop her, adding, “It’s public record; when you incorporated your assets last year, you did not name anyone as beneficiary, excepting of course Mal and the Tams in matters of inheritance.”

Oh. Right. “Is this leading to a question?” Sallie asks, all the while waiting and hoping for an easy one. Malcolm will never return to ranch life, and she doesn’t need Andronicus to remind her of that.

“And if you had backing in the City, I would imagine that having appropriate investors in your land would make the need for a managerial beneficiary to be rather...superfluous.” Good, Andronicus thinks. It’s still a business transaction. Sort of. “No concerns of unwanted buyers, et cetera, et cetera.”

Sallie is opening her mouth to reply, a surprised -- shocked -- elated expression, and closes it again. The scenario repeats. Malcolm steps in. “Is there paperwork she needs to be looking at?” A skewed glance to his mother, and a mouthed Happy Birthday.


[And a different one.]

“There’s not much for him to do anymore, but he hangs about all the same.”

“That’s what he’s going to do,” the dark-haired man with the gold eyes offers back, matter-of-factly. “He’s your son, Sallie. It’s his job.”

“His job,” and the accented word comes out as a cough heavy in the ribs, “is to be home. Wife, child and crew. That’s his job.” The woman is sitting up in bed, pulling her shawl over her shoulders for some semblance of control over her appearance in front of her frequent visitor.

“Sallie? Get off it. Mal’s going to be doing what he’s going to be doing. Has been since -- “

“Can you tell me when?”

Crowley swallows, hard. He moves himself from the chair closest to her bedroom door to standing at the foot of the bed. “Come again?”

“Crowley? Get off it.”

“You know I can’t.”

“Demons is supposed to do what they want, stories say.”

“Don’t believe everything you hear.”

“When’s the last time I asked you for anything?”

“I think you asked me for cream in your coffee this morning.”

Turning angry, “You’re toying with me.”

Crowley’s voice turns firmer, with, “And you’re asking the same questions over and over.”

“Crowley...” There’s no cough to Sallie’s voice this time, though the effort to restrain herself from this is evident. “Why are you here?” Sallie leans forward, reaching out for Crowley’s hand and pulling him slightly forward from his position at her bedpost. “I don’t understand.”

Crowley snorts, shaking his head slightly. “I’m not sure there is a reason. Is that so wrong of me?”

Sallie doesn’t really have a response, but she leans back on her pillows still holding on to Crowley’s hand. “Can I tell you something? As a compliment?”

“Sure.”

A long exhalation, then, “You’re the kind of demon I like chasin’ me and mine. Is that so wrong of me?”
 
 
26 December 2007 @ 09:11 am
THERE IS NO ONE IN MY OFFICE BUT ME AND THE LIBRARIANS. D:


Therefore, let me synthesize several conversations with several people re: current FFverse dealings into one rambling poorly-organize paragraph or five.Collapse )

That made...I dunno if any sense at all, but whatever.
 
 
03 July 2007 @ 09:40 pm
More Mal-Moiraine (Mal/Moiraine?), still on themes out of this thread. God, I reread that thread NOW and I get all D:D:D:.

"...she fears those who are of a certain type, and who have a certain focus to their purpose...."

Let's see what happens, shall we?Collapse )
 
 
04 June 2007 @ 02:59 am
And I really need a better Ten icon.


"Why do you wear glasses?" Martha asked one day right in the middle of a perfectly good explanation about some of the TARDIS's simpler control mechanisms.

"What?" That same look -- the one that's a cross between 'Why are you interrupting me?' and genuine confusion over the question -- comes across the Doctor's face quickly. "They're...they're my glasses. So I wear them. What's to know?"

"Well, you can't really need them, can you?" she presses. "All that Time Lord DNA can't possibly leave you with astigmatism."

Almost accentuating their uselessness, he pushes the brown frames impossibly far up his nose, shrugs, and with a segue never smoother than "So -- what was I saying?" the question is dropped.

Dinner is sometimes a rather involved affair when living on the TARDIS, but that night not so much -- the Doctor had insisted on cooking. Cooking, here, meaning any and all nourishment centered around a 27th-century contraption that Martha is pretty sure the Doctor calls a microwave just to make things easier.

"Food's on!" the Doctor calls from the next room, and Martha goes to join him, laughing for a moment when she finds him in an apron.

She doesn't make mention aloud when she notices he's not wearing his glasses.

Martha puts away the dishes after dinner once the Doctor meanders off to one of the parts of the TARDIS she hasn't even had a chance to explore yet. Opening one cabinet, she almost drops a plate down on top of a plain pair of thick-rimmed glasses. It was something very human -- absentmindedly so -- to forget one's things like this, in random places.

Martha didn't precisely think this was what happened, and she picks the pair up, leaving them in front of the Doctor's place at the dinner table with a note.

Don't leave your glasses about -- they might get broken. We wouldn't want that, now would we?

Martha smiles at him later, once he's found them again, and the Doctor smiles back.


Turned out different than I'd planned, but enh.
 
 
17 January 2007 @ 04:29 pm
Aspen, remember you love me.Collapse )

...What is wrong with me? :D?
 
 
 
27 December 2006 @ 12:16 pm
Because I couldn't not. :D?


Read more...Collapse )
 
 
 
 
13 October 2006 @ 02:00 pm
"Shensheng de gaowan," Mal murmurs to himself, Saffron rolling her eyes at him as they walk into Durran Haymer's main showroom on his Big Floaty Island.

So many things here that Inara would know the names of that Mal hasn't even heard about more than once or twice at school -- paintings from Earth-that-Was and of Earth-that-Was, various contraptions and gadgets, and something labeled 'CD Player', though Mal didn't even want to think what that might actually do.

A noise erupts in one corner of the room, and just as Mal's mind connects to the idea that the rumbling doesn't sound like any fed-alarm he's ever heard, he spins on his heel to see a blue box...fading into existence.

Saffron, true to form, pulls a laser pistol out of the flower bouquet she hasn't gotten rid of yet and points it at the object. Now Mal rolls his eyes, but fingers the butt of the gun tucked at the small of his back just the same.

Once the box -- this one labeled 'Police Telephone', though Mal can't really make sense of the second word -- stopped pulsing, Saffron and Mal both keep holding their breath until the door actually opens and someone dressed like he and Simon should compare fashion tips looks to the both of them and says:

"Twenty-five seventeen." A shrug. "Close enough."

Advancing toward the new arrival, "Think it's far too close, actually," Saffron declares, still leveling the gun at the man. "You can go in your box and wait politely until me and my -- "

"Partner," Mal interjects.

" -- Sure. Take care of some business."

"Oh. You mean this business?" The stranger points to the Lassiter in the central case, and Mal's blood pressure goes up a notch. His blood pressure shoots off of any chart imaginable when the man smiles, adding, "A Great Big Threatening Laser Gun."

Laughing, he moves closer to the case, Saffron and Mal both moving forward to try and get this hun dan to stop. "A great big threatening laser gun which must not be removed under any circumstances. Am I right?" Leaning down to inspect the laser-enclosed pedestal more closely, "Let me guess, it's some sort of tag system? Hmm? Hold on, what is it?"

He holds a metal blue laser pointer at one of the cover plates of the pedestal and it falls away. He leads the laser pointer over one of the circuit boards in the central wiring and stands back up again, grinning like a fool straight at Mal.

"The Lassiter! Oh! I haven't seen anyone try to own the Lassiter in years!" He steps back from the pedestal, reminding Mal to breathe when he does so, but continues. "That just leaves us with a great stinking problem. 'Cause, when I see a great big threatening laser gun which should never ever ever be stolen, I just get the urge to do this!"

The stranger's hand falls straight through the laser net surrounding the Lassiter, and all the doors to the chamber slam shut, locking the three intruders inside.

Mal sighs. "...This is not my best day ever."


TBC. Maybe.
 
 
13 October 2006 @ 01:16 pm
It was the lawyer handling Sallie's estate that waved Captain Reynolds to tell him that she'd died two days before, and Inara'd held him for hours after he'd nearly fallen over in her shuttle where he'd listened to the less-than-sincere condolences of the man in a faded suit and pince-nez glasses.

"It'll take us a spell to get back 'round to Shadow, 'til we drop off the goods." It was the first thing he'd said out loud and coherently after sobbing face-down in a pillow, and Inara knew better than to question him. Sallie never asked Serenity to do more than what she could, and despite efforts to the contrary, no one can make fuel cells magically recharge, even when there's a funeral to be attending. It takes a day to get the ship's affairs in order, and Serenity's pilot doesn't even need an order to start mapping vectors toward the Reynolds Ranch, where the entire crew had spent time over the years.

For as cold as the lawyer was, the last surviving member of the Reynolds family had to admit -- he did a fairly good job of organizing everything for him, including arrangements for the funeral service. The one set of details he'd wished someone else had managed to do, however, Captain Reynolds gave to Inara.

She had always managed to break news like that better to people, with sincere eyes and a smile that wasn't a smile at all.

Nevertheless, when Serenity touched down on Shadow on the same port landing on the outskirts they'd landed on for more years than the captain remembered, the cargo bay ramp landed with a familiar thump, and the crew stared into the faces of men and women who were more legend to most on the ship than anything else.

Except for the Captain.

"Wei, Aunt Zo'," David Reynolds nodded to Zoe, who was the first to walk up to him. The others -- Simon and Kaylee, Wash, River, Jayne -- they all came up to Inara first, before turning to call David anything from 'Pipsqueak' to 'Davey'. Only Simon called David 'Captain', and David himself never questioned it.

"Shall we?" Niam, David's pilot, suggested while nodding toward the direction of the ranch. Inara mumbles a 'yes' in return, and they all head for the house that had been the kitchen, the vacation home and the sometimes-hideout for all of them at one point or another.

Inara pulls at David's elbow then, slowing his pace and making them both fall to the back of the group. Looking down at his mother, he nods before she even speaks, but she explains herself anyway.

"Let's go see your father."

The pair detour, and it's not too far away from the house that they find one headstone -- two, now, as the lawyer has already taken care of even that, for Sallie -- and David genuflects in front of the plain marker.

Malcolm Beauregard Reynolds
2486 - 2528

Captain


Inara moves away from David in her own small ritual, walking around behind the headstone, kissing her first two fingers and placing them against the small inscription on the back - Mu Ji - that only recently could his mother find it in herself to actually explain.

David readjusts the holster slung across his hip more out of respect and righting himself than a sense of nervousness. "You alright, Ma?"

"Yes. Of course," again with the smile that was never a smile at all. "Let's go back to the others."


Uh. Hi.