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BLUE SUN ROOM FAN FICTION - DRAMA
"Twenty minutes later, she's dragged him to the alley behind the bar, kissing him fiercely." [Z/W, Z/OMC]
CATEGORY: FICTION TIMES READ: 1111 RATING: 9 SERIES: FIREFLY
Title: Replacement: Lover the First
Series: As yet unnamed 22 Lovers project
Author: Kari (meinterrupted AT livejournal DOT com)
Rating: Adult. Sex, but nothing explicit
Word count: 817
Spoilers/Timeline: Post-movie. Major spoilers.
Disclaimer: Not mine, don’t sue.
Summary: 'Twenty minutes later, she's dragged him to the alley behind the bar, kissing him fiercely.'
Author's Note: Written for 22_lovers. The first in a series of (appx.) 22 stories about Zoë and her lovers. Unbeta'd, because I'm impatient.
It's been two months since Miranda, and every day Zoë still feels like she wants to die. She keeps going, for Mal, for Kaylee, even for Wash, but never for herself. At night, alone in her bed (our bed, our bed, always our bed) she sleeps fitfully, dreaming, or lying awake, staring at the ceiling. But never crying. She still can't let herself cry.
Her dreams come in two categories. The first are those about Miranda. In her dreams, sometimes she saves him. Some nights, she pushes him out of the way, taking the spear herself. (I was supposed to go first, it was supposed to be me, baby, I'm so sorry.) Other nights, she drags him to her, sparing them both from the spear. They would run to the last stand, and no one died. But most nights, she watches helplessly as he's impaled, and runs with Mal to save the others.
The other dreams are more disturbing. Some nights she dreams of his touch, his caresses, his kisses. She dreams of laughing at his jokes, rolling her eyes at that silly moustache, grinning at his obsession with dinosaurs. She remembers their first kiss, his surprise when she had kissed him after a particularly dangerous mission. ("Don't read into this, Washburn." "Wouldn't dream of it." "You're reading." "Okay, I admit it. But just a little.") Those are the mornings she wakes up screaming, shaking from lack of touch, lack of Wash. Seeing him alive in her dreams is more painful than watching him die.
It's one of those mornings when they land on Beylix. Zoë splashes water on her face, trying to wash away the remnants of her dreams, wash away memories of her husband. (I'm sorry baby, but I gotta get through the day.) Her face is clean, but her heart is still broken and bloody inside. She doesn't think it will ever heal.
The tavern is dark and seedy, as always. Mal is in a corner, talking with their contact, and Jayne is sitting at the bar, a whore on his lap. Zoë keeps an eye on the door, watching for any signs of danger. She has a beer, but she's not drinking it. So when the man next to her offers to buy her a drink, she turns him down.
He merely smiles. "You're too pretty for a guy like me anyway." She turns, sharply, his voice reminding her so much of Wash's. "But once you finish, I'd still like to buy you one."
She smiles back at him.
Twenty minutes later she's dragged him to the alley behind the bar, kissing him fiercely. Her fingers thread through his hair (wrong shade of red, but still so familiar) as he palms her breasts. Michael--she thinks he said it was Michael--slides his hands down to her hips, pulling her tight against him. He starts murmuring something in her ear, and she stops. "Don't talk," she mutters angrily.
He takes the hint, instead using his mouth to suck on her ear. Zoë moans just a little, closing her eyes, and pretending the hands on her body were just a little bigger. He fumbles with her belt, unzipping her pants and his. She grips his shoulders, digging her short nails into his shirt. It's another moment before she can feel him against her (he's using a condom, god I don't remember the last time I had to use one) and he slides in with one hard thrust.
Her back rubs against the rough brick as he pounds into her. She presses one hand against the wall for support, the other fisting his hair. It hurts, stretching muscles grown atrophied in the months since Miranda. He's bigger than Wash, hitting her cervix with each thrust, and the pain (not just bodily, hurt in my heart) brings tears to her eyes. They're still clamped shut, making it easier to pretend he is someone else, but drops of water leak out the edges.
He finishes, collapsing against her. The weight is familiar (familiar but wrong, I can't pretend anymore), but she pushes him away, zipping her pants, and the tears start flowing in earnest. She drops to her knees, helpless against the onslaught of emotion. She can hear him behind her, buttoning his own jeans, and when he's done, he approaches her, lightly laying his hand on her shoulder. "I--I'm sorry. Are you okay?"
She shakes her head, her face tight. Zoë leans away from him, his hand falling off her shoulder, and presses her forehead to the wall. The brick is cold and rough, and it grounds her. Three deep breaths later, she is again Zoë Alleyne Washburn, first mate of Serenity and warrior woman. She stands and straightens her shirt, ignoring the man behind her. When she walks back into the bar, everything is the way she left it.
That night, she doesn't dream.
Tuesday, May 2, 2006 8:32 PM
Wednesday, May 3, 2006 3:15 AM
Wednesday, May 3, 2006 11:01 AM
Thursday, May 4, 2006 9:33 PM
Sunday, May 28, 2006 8:44 PM
Saturday, July 8, 2006 6:50 AM
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