Firefly Crossover Of Doom!
Oct. 27th, 2008 09:48 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kaydeefalls
Enjoy. Read it as one long fic, read it as a series of connected ficlets, read only one section because that's the only fandom you're interested in. It's like a buffet of Firefly crossover fic! And who doesn't like a buffet?
Respite
by kaydee falls
fandoms: TOO GODDAMN MANY. Firefly, clearly.
rating: pg-13
summary: The sky will still be there when they're ready to return to it. Post-movie.
disclaimer: none of them are mine. not a one.
notes: with huge thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
newredshoes for the beta, and then some.
i. crossroad blues
Jayne and Kaylee'd stuck together at first, until they hit this glorified jien huo of a city, in the middle of desert that looked like a thousand anonymous border moons. Kaylee was drawn to the brightly-lit casinos like a fly to shit, lured in by all the glitz and glamour. Well, Jayne reflects, she'd always had an unnatural fascination for anything that smelled of the Core. Jayne selects a more familiar sort of den off the Strip, a dive with all the grime, pool, and booze a man could need.
Jayne takes a swig of beer, leaning on his pool cue as some other guy takes an improbable shot. He wonders with a snort how Kaylee's "finding herself" in that casino thing. He's not sure what to make of this driving need to find themselves that's brought the crew to this old rock. Jayne's pretty damn sure there ain't nothing of himself left to find.
As he carefully aims his cue for a particularly tricky shot, someone jostles Jayne from behind, making his elbow jerk up at exactly the wrong moment. The balls scatter every which way, not a one of them in a direction Jayne intended, and he whips his cue around with a curse to face the hwoon dahn who just ruined the game.
Pretty boy, Jayne notes, but none too clean; none too sober, either. Pretty Boy gives Jayne a shit-eating grin, remarks, "You'd never've made that shot, anyway."
"Hard to tell now, ain't it," Jayne snarls.
Pretty Boy snorts. "What, you gonna go cry about it?"
Jayne pauses, considers, and then belts Pretty Boy in the jaw.
It's a nice little scuffle. Pretty Boy recovers from the punch too fast, so Jayne knows he was fixin' for a fight anyway, and they lay into each other with gleeful abandon. It feels good, throwing punches and getting slammed into things, a purely physical pleasure with no undue mental activity required. Not quite as nice as certain other activities Jayne might mention, but the release is sweet all the same. Jayne's sick to death of thinking these days.
He tries to make a proper brawl of it, being sure to throw Pretty Boy into a cluster of other patrons, but the chickenshit barkeep intervenes and throws them out before they can make a real mess of the place. Jayne finds himself flat on his back on the hot pavement, ears ringing a bit from the impact, Pretty Boy sprawled in an undignified heap beside him.
Pulling himself back upright, Jayne mentally catalogues his injuries. Skull: bruised a bit, but no serious damage. No loose teeth. Nose a bit banged up, but not broken or even bleeding. Hell of a twisted shoulder, that'll give him a twinge in the morning. Possibly a cracked rib, but it doesn't hurt too bad to breathe, so it should heal up quick enough. Sore knuckles.
Yeah, it was a good fight.
"Ruttin' bastards, I didn't even get to finish my beer," he complains companionably, dusting himself off.
Pretty Boy starts to sit up, groaning. "At least we don't have to pay for it."
"True enough." Jayne looks him over carefully. Not so pretty anymore, now that Jayne's sorted out his face a bit. It's definitely an improvement. And he took his beating like a man. This one's all right, Jayne decides. "Nice to meetcha," he says affably, holding out a hand to help the guy up. Not-So-Pretty-Anymore Boy eyes him warily, then accepts the offered assistance. "Jayne Cobb. And don't you ruttin' start with the girl's name thing."
"Yeah," the guy says, mouth twisting at the corner into a wry smile. He touches his swelling cheek and winces. "Wouldn't want anyone to think you're a pussy or anything, would you. Dean Winchester."
They take a few moments to stretch and curse, working out the kinks left by the scuffle.
"So what do you do?" Dean asks, flexing his fingers experimentally.
"Track things," Jayne says. "Or people. Sometimes there's shooting involved, other times there ain't. Don't make much difference long as I get my cut, dong-ma?"
"Dong-what?"
Jayne just shrugs. People 'round here are dumb as a ton of bricks, don't even know basic Mandarin.
Dean looks him over, kinda shifty-like. "So, you'd call yourself a sorta...hunter, maybe?"
"Hunter," Jayne repeats, pleased. He'd never have called himself that before, but he likes the sound of it. Very rugged, very manly. Respectable, too, much more so than hired gun. "Yeah, you could say that."
"Figures," Dean says, visibly relaxing. They start heading down the street, drawn by the cheap fluorescent lure of another bar. "You got a whiff of this jackass, too, huh? Can't say I'm surprised, we could've held a fucking convention for this one. Not exactly what you might call inconspicuous."
Jayne wonders what the hell he's talking about. He settles for a noncommittal "Vegas, huh?"
Dean laughs. "Yeah, fucking Vegas. Sorry, though, man, looks like we nailed him first."
"Uh," Jayne says. "Yeah. Shit. Them's the breaks."
"You missed a real show, lemme tell you. That bastard had a hell of a thing for the slots. And all I got out of it was a Ziploc bag full of nickels."
"Ah," Jayne says sagely. He's not sure what a nickel is, but from the way Dean says it, it probably ain't worth much. Come to think on it, he's not too sure what anything's worth around here, but Mal handed him a fistful of green paper when they landed, and it seems to be doing the trick so far.
The new bar is just as disreputable as the one they were thrown out of, much to Jayne's approval. They order a couple of beers and park themselves in a dingy corner booth.
"So," Jayne says. "Uh, who was the guy, anyway? The one you, you know, hunted."
"What you'd probably expect," Dean says. His gaze sharpens. "What did you expect, Mr. Cobb?"
Shit. "Well, you know," he tries, flailing about for some sorta smart-sounding response. "Casinos like this place has, with the...slots...and all... Hell, I've pulled a con or two at a casino myself. You know the sort."
Dean's eyes continue narrowing. "I don't know, do I? You tell me. Hunter."
Shit. "Hey, uh, I think maybe there's been some kinda misunderstanding..."
"Fuck," Dean bites out. In a flash, he's a lot closer to Jayne than Jayne's strictly comfortable with, and there's a glimpse of something in his palm.
Then Jayne feels something very, very sharp pressing against his right side.
"Not one fucking word, man," Dean growls. "You think I'm a goddamn idiot?"
Okay. Jayne holds himself very still. He's not sure what exactly Dean's got shoved up against his kidney, knife or stiletto or what-the-fuck-ever, but it's in his best interest not to say or do anything that leads to his becoming more intimately acquainted with it. He looks straight into Dean's eyes, assessing. The boy's angry, yeah, no rutting kidding, but Jayne gets the feeling he's more angry with himself. For blabbing too much about – well, the hunting thing, whatever the hell that's about. Angry, and just a little bit scared, or he wouldn't have gone for his weapon so fast. And he very clearly does not have his next move planned out yet. What this kid really wants is for someone else to come in and fix this problem for him – or to prove himself to someone by sorting it out on his own.
"Hey," Jayne says softly, gritting his teeth. "Why don't we all calm down, huh? Ain't nobody threatening you and yours, boy."
"Oh, I disagree," Dean snaps. "Trickster. Thought we dispatched your ass already."
"Don't know what in seven hells you're on about," Jayne replies. "Hunters, tricksters – don't mean nothin' to me. Just trying to enjoy my drink."
He's got a knife strapped to his left leg. Slowly, carefully, he starts inching his hand downward.
"Yeah, right," Dean says, all bluster, but Jayne can see the hesitation in his eyes. Like maybe he's not so goddamned sure of himself. Just another dumb fucking soldier without his captain. Jayne could almost sympathize, if it weren't for the sharp pointy thing. "Tell me," Dean goes on, "what the hell do you want with us, anyway?"
"Don't want a damn thing. Just passing through."
"You bastards just can't leave well enough alone, can you?" And Dean's not talking to him, anymore, not really. "None of you. You sick fuck. What, you're just bored?"
Just bored. Yeah, that's right. Jayne thinks about drifting, the empty shell of a ship, three fresh graves on an unfamiliar moon, and doesn't reply. He hates thinking. His fists itch for a fight.
Looks like he's gonna get one.
"Dean!" someone bellows from across the bar. Dean flinches. There's an older guy bearing down on them, looks like he's in some kinda rush or something. "What the hell do you think you're doin', son?" he demands once he's reached them, much quieter this time.
Dean's eyes flash with anger – and maybe just a hint of relief. He jerks his head at Jayne. "The fucking Trickster's back."
The old guy barely spares a glance in Jayne's direction, instead staring at point beyond them. "No fucking kidding."
That's when Jayne gets hit in the side of the head with something very small and very hard.
"Ow! What the—"
It's followed by a veritable rain of small, hard objects. Nickels, Jayne thinks hazily.
"Oh, shit," Dean says, jumping out of the booth. He bares his weapon, which Jayne can now see is a jagged hunk of very sharp wood. It isn't doing much to deflect the storm of coins. Somewhere in the bar, someone – something – is laughing, high and strange. "Here we go." He glances back at Jayne, chagrined. "Um...oops?"
The other man – Dean's captain, clearly – slaps Jayne on the shoulder. "You. Any good in a fight?"
Jayne just grins and grabs a chair, cracking off one leg. This is gonna be fun.
ii. all of them are true
The problem with having a gun, Vince thinks, is that every now and then Stuart actually wants to shoot the bloody thing.
"You know," Vince remarks, making sure to keep well back, "sooner or later, the cactus is going to get tired of being shot at and shoot back."
"Fuck off," Stuart mutters, taking careful aim. This time, he just barely clips the edge of it. What d'you call that bit, anyway? Vince wonders. The cactus branch? The limb? The pointing-out-bit?
Later, he'll suppose they didn't hear her sneak up on them because their ears were still ringing from all the gunshots.
"What in God's name are you doing?" she asks from behind them, and it's all Vince can do to refrain from shrieking. He might levitate a bit; but then, Stuart certainly does. But shrieking, now, that Vince would never live down.
The woman is tall, black – African-American, the prissy part of Vince's brain corrects – and has a figure that could only be described as voluptuous. She's also carrying a gun nearly half her size.
"Oh, my God," Vince remarks, awed. "We're going to die."
"It's a free country, innit?" Stuart tells the killer woman cockily. "At least that's what it said in all the brochures."
The woman raises one eyebrow. She does not look impressed.
"Oh God," Vince says. "I'll bet she's a cop or a – a game warden or something. I'll bet she has some sort of badge. I'll bet she has a license to kill. Look, please, we'll go away, don't shoot us," he pleads with her. "Or, well, shoot him, it was his bloody stupid idea to make your cactus into his fucking target practice. Oh, my God, the cactus isn't, like, endangered or something, is it? This might be some sort of national park or wildlife reserve or sommat—"
"We're in the middle of the fucking desert, Vince," Stuart snaps. "There's nothing reserved about this wildlife – or the fucking lack of any, I should say. Are cacti even classified as living things, technically? Because they really shouldn't be. Look at them."
The woman has apparently decided they don't pose any sort of threat. She leans on her absurdly large gun, looking faintly amused. "I'm not a fed," she says finally. "Heard the shots and came looking to see if there was any trouble." She shakes her head, looking them over. "Just a pair of idiots poking holes in plants, though. Or trying to."
"I hit it once," Stuart says indignantly, brandishing the revolver.
The woman winces. "I should hope so, seeing as you're standing hardly twenty feet away. And please don't wave it around like that, you're liable to hurt someone – even if you can't seem to do much damage a-purpose."
"What d'you know about it?" Stuart demands, stung.
Vince rolls his eyes and mutters, "Well, she clearly knows how to handle a weapon, Stuart."
"Questioning my technique, Vince? Funny, I don't remember hearing any complaints in that department."
"Just bolstering your fragile ego, me."
"Not the only thing you've been bolstering."
The woman cocks her head and studies them, then visibly relaxes. "So you're sly," she says. "That's all right, then."
"Sly," Stuart says, rolling the word around his tongue. He grins. "I like it, Vince. Suits me."
"'Course it does, you bastard," Vince mutters, feeling his ears go pink. "Look, miss, I'm so sorry we bothered you, we'll just be going—"
He cuts himself off, because the oddest thing is happening. The woman sets her enormous weapon gently on the ground, then walks right up to Stuart and holds out her hand. "Your stance is all wrong," she says. "Here, let me show you."
Stuart regards her warily. "I don't let just anyone touch my gun, sweetheart, and no offense, but you don't have the right equipment."
She rolls her eyes. "I'm well aware of that. Just give it to me."
Stuart glances back at Vince, who just shrugs. "If she was going to shoot you, she'd do it with her own gun, I think," he points out. "Seems like a lot of trouble to take your own and – ooh, unless she's trying to make it look like you—"
"Shut up, Vince," Stuart says, and gives the woman his gun.
"All right, now watch me," she says, and holds the gun firmly in both hands, pointing it at the unfortunate cactus. "I know it looks real shiny in all the vids to swing it around one-handed, but even a small weapon like this has a kick to it, and until you're used to handling it, it's best to keep a firm grip. Helps with the aim, too." She fires one shot. It blows a lovely hole dead center in the cactus. "Now you try."
Stuart reclaims the gun, reluctantly following her lead. Before he has a chance to aim, though, she's prodding at him, correcting his stance. Vince just watches, amused and curious.
She slaps Stuart's arm. "You need some tension there! This isn't a toy, it's a real live weapon with real live bullets. You have to be in complete control of where those bullets go or you will get hurt."
"Or I'll get hurt, more like," Vince mutters. The woman glances back at him, the faintest traces of what might be a smile playing across her lips. Just for a second, and then it's gone.
It's strange, Vince thinks, watching the way this stranger is manipulating Stuart's body. She's so clinical about it, completely detached. Well, not that she'd have posed any sort of sexual threat in any case – what with the whole female thing, and all – but still. It's as though she's completely turned off any potential for sensuality. She's treating Stuart as though he's just a piece of machinery, an extension of the gun in his hands. Which, Vince supposes, is the whole point of this little exercise.
Or maybe she's just a lesbian.
Finally, she's satisfied, and allows Stuart to actually fire the thing. He hits the cactus – not dead on, not even close, but still. He hits it.
"Better," she says. "Keep practicing."
"I'm out of bullets," Stuart replies flatly.
Vince rolls his eyes. "And whose fault is that? You've only been missing at cacti for over an hour now."
"Didn't I say we should buy more ammo at the last place? You're the one who's always on about how dangerous it is. What's the point of having a gun if I'm not supposed to bloody fire it?"
"The point is not to need to fire it, you twat. Waving it about every now and then is all well and good, but there's no need to go all cowboy just 'cause we're in the American West."
"Oo-er, I'd like to see that. Get you in some chaps and a big fuck-off hat—"
"Chance'd be a fine thing. Bastard."
"What the hell are the two of you doing out here, anyway?" the woman interrupts, eying them bemusedly.
Vince and Stuart exchange a grin. "Whatever the fuck we want," Stuart tells her.
"We're traveling," Vince explains. "Seeing the universe. Or, well, this part of it, anyway. For now."
"Just...traveling? For any particular reason?"
"Long as we keep moving," Vince says, "it's reason enough."
The woman just looks at him, considering.
"What about you, then?" Vince asks. "You live around here or something?"
"Not exactly," she says. "Just...resting here a spell."
Stuart snorts. "And hunting for tourists, apparently. Ta very much for the lesson, it's been quite enlightening. And don't think I didn't notice you trying to cop a feel there, either." He turns to Vince. "Come on, I'm fucking starving. Let's go find a rest stop or something."
"There's sandwiches in the glove compartment," Vince says absently.
"I don't want sandwiches, Vince, I want real food. With as much grease and improbably colored condiments as possible. You coming?"
"Be there in a second," Vince tells him, still watching the woman. There's something – well, not vulnerable, that's entirely the wrong word, but something about her, and he's curious. And she didn't try to cop a feel off Stuart. He'd have noticed.
"Right then," Stuart says, cocking an eyebrow. "I'll get the engine going. But if you're not there in five minutes, I swear to God I'm going without you. I'm that hungry." He waves back at the woman flippantly and heads off to the car.
The woman and Vince eye each other for a moment.
"D'you need a lift?" Vince asks, a little awkwardly. "I mean, you're out in the middle of nowhere, and unless you've got a horse hidden behind that cactus or something—"
"I'm all right, thanks," she says. She closes her eyes for a second. "I like the middle of nowhere part. It's peaceful."
"Until we came along, anyway," Vince says wryly. "Look, I'm sorry about Stuart, I know he can be a bit of an arse sometimes – actually, all of the time—"
She smiles faintly. It's the first he's seen her smile. "You and him, you're..."
"Yeah," he says. "We are." She just looks at him, and so he just keeps talking, because that's what he does when he doesn't know what else to do. "I know it doesn't make much sense, the two of us, but we make it work somehow. Didn't think it'd last a week at first, to be honest – I must've been completely mad, running off with him like that, but, well, even if it only lasted a week, it'd have been worth it. All of it."
"How long has it been?" she asks softly.
He actually has to stop and think about it. "Well, I mean, we've been friends since we were just kids, so that's like almost two decades, oh my God we're old, but that's not what you meant, is it? No, of course not. We're – four years. It's been four years. Give or take a month or so."
The woman's eyes are shadowed. "It's always worth it," she says. "Every second of it. Don't you forget that."
"I won't," he says, surprised by the strength of her reaction.
A car horn beeps, loud and obnoxious.
"That'll be Stuart, then," Vince sighs. "He's that tetchy when he misses his lunch."
"Go on, then," the woman says. She leans down and retrieves her frighteningly enormous weapon, swinging it easily across her back. Vince winces but doesn't comment.
"Right," he says. "Look, it was nice meeting you – oh, God, I've just realized, I don't even know your name."
She shrugs. "Doesn't matter much, does it? Anyway, it's Zoe."
"Zoe. Right. Lovely name. I'm Vince."
"Yeah," she says. "So I gathered."
"Right," he says again. "Well, bye then, I guess. Enjoy your, um, quiet. And your appallingly large gun. Which, thank you, by the way, for deciding not to shoot us, I thought I should mention how much I appreciate that. And for teaching Stuart how to shoot cacti, although really, I've a feeling I'm going to regret that in the end. Why did you, by the way? Help him out, I mean."
She gives him that faint almost-smile again. "No particular reason. Maybe because you reminded me of my—" She cuts herself off, blinking. "Of a man I used to know."
Stuart slams on the horn again.
"Goodbye, Vince," Zoe says. It has a finality about it. Vince knows he's not going to meet her again.
"Bye," he says. "And, y'know, thanks. Again."
She just nods and turns away, walking back out across the desert rock.
Vince jogs back to the car and swings himself into the passenger seat.
"Jesus, Vince, what the fuck took you so long?" Stuart demands. "God, you weren't bonding with her, or something, were you? Some desert woman with a weird-looking gun, add a spaceship and I suppose she'd be straight out of Doctor Who or sommat—"
Vince leans over and kisses him. Snogs the living daylights out of him, really, teeth clashing and tongues battling it out and all.
"All right then," Stuart says, a bit breathlessly, when they finally pull apart. "What was that for?"
Vince thinks about Zoe's retreating figure, straight-backed and solitary and sad. "No particular reason," he says. "Just felt like it. Now, I thought you were hungry or something?"
"Yeah," Stuart says, eyes gleaming, as he grabs Vince's shirt and pulls him back in. "Yeah, I am."
iii. taking out the trash
Pepper has Tony Stark's sleeping habits down to a science. She enters the Stark mansion at precisely 6:00 every morning. By precisely 6:02, she can determine: a) did Tony sleep last night, and if so, b) did Tony sleep here last night, and if so, c) did Tony sleep here alone last night? It should be noted that the answer to question c is very rarely affirmative.
This morning, stepping through the doors, she immediately notes the presence of a woman's Asian-style embroidered jacket on the floor of the foyer. She feels almost disappointed; usually, it's not this blatantly obvious. It's almost an insult to her powers of deductive reasoning.
"Good morning, Miss Potts," Jarvis says pleasantly, as is his wont.
"As always," Pepper replies.
Heading toward the staircase, she stops in her tracks and gapes.
The entrance to the basement workshop is open.
Now, this mandates a certain degree of reevaluation. Tony is very, very protective of his toys – to put it mildly. He's also a careless, unfocused, and frequently inebriated genius. It's not all that bizarre for him to leave the door to his super-secret clubhouse open – if he's alone in the house. But he never with one of his chickadees about the place. And judging by that woman's jacket strewn so brazenly across the foyer, there is definitely some hot little number upstairs in his bed right now. So what the hell is he doing leaving his favorite secret passageway open for any dumb blonde to stumble through?
It occurs to Pepper that perhaps he is alone, and last night's squeeze simply forgot her jacket when she slipped out. But wasn't Tony at some fancy fundraiser in Las Vegas last night? Assuming he picked this unknown girl up there – no great stretch of the imagination – where on earth would she have slipped away to? His private jet's still in the hangar where it landed at just after 2:15 this morning. Pepper checked.
Unless the jacket doesn't actually belong to anyone, and Tony's just fucking with her head, in which case she is going to kick his ass.
Thus bolstered by righteous indignation, coupled by the fact that it's only 6:05am and the idiot teenager at Starbuck's accidentally handed her a decaf, Pepper Potts descends into the workshop.
"Really, Mr. Stark," she says, "I don't see what you could possibly—"
And then she cuts herself off, because the person currently sprawled under the belly of the latest toy (a very shiny red car that Tony spent about twenty minutes enthusiastically describing to her, down to model number and all sorts of mechanical specifications, but which Pepper will only ever think of as "shiny" and "red"), with wrench in hand and a wide variety of other tools scattered about the floor nearby, is not Tony Stark.
In fact, unless Pepper is greatly mistaken, this is the owner of that lovely embroidered jacket.
The girl pokes her head out. "Oh, hey there! Gimme just one second." She ducks back under the car and twists the wrench in a couple of places, then scoots back out again. "Thought that was the problem," she says with an air of great satisfaction. "This is nothin' like the hovercraft my daddy used to fix up, but the parts ain't so different after all."
"How did you get down here?" Pepper demands, aghast.
The girl shrugs. "Had a little chat with your AI system, is all."
"I apologize, Ms. Potts," Jarvis says, somewhat ruefully. "She made a very compelling argument."
"Just explained how I was real handy with a screwdriver and all," the girl adds affably. "Real handy."
"I...see," Pepper says.
The girl grins, bright and friendly. "Oh, I'm so sorry, I just realized, we ain't been introduced." She starts to stick out her hand, then frowns down at it, as though suddenly realizing she's half-covered with oil and engine grease. A light blush colors her cheeks. "And here I ain't half fit for polite company," she mutters. "Anyway, I'm Kaylee. Nice to meet you. Prob'ly shouldn't shake your hand just now, though."
Pepper starts to smile, then catches herself. "Pepper Potts," she says briskly. "Lovely to meet you. Pity there's no time for a chat, but I'm afraid it's time to get you off home. I'll call a car to take you back to...?" She trails off delicately, raising a questioning eyebrow.
"Dunno exactly," Kaylee says amiably, apparently not in the least put off by Pepper's chilly demeanor. "Not sure where I am now, y'see."
Pepper blinks. "Mr. Stark's residence, of course. Malibu."
Kaylee just looks at her blankly.
"...California?"
"Sorry," Kaylee says with a shrug. "I'm not from around here, you might say. Don't seem like we get the luxury of hangin' about any one place for long, these days." There's a shadow behind her eyes, bleak and lost, and then it passes. She plasters on a wide, cheerful grin. "Looks like a real nice place, though."
"Yes, well, I'm sure you got the grand tour," Pepper mutters.
"Didn't mean to offend or anything," Kaylee says hastily. "Sorry to be a bother, I can go now, really. Just lemme tighten up a few bolts first, wouldn't want the engine to fall off next time someone takes her out for a swing." And she ducks back under the car.
Pepper puts her hands on her hips, peering after the girl. "What on earth are you doing down here anyway?"
"Won't be a minute," Kaylee sings out, voice muffled by the machinery. "Don't like leaving a job half finished is all. When I don't have to." After a few more moments, she pulls herself back out again, wiping her arm across her forehead. It leaves a streak of grease, but she doesn't seem to notice. "The way Tony was talking last night, I figured he had to have a workshop stored away down here somewhere. Found it is all."
"But why?"
Kaylee shrugs uncomfortably. Her eyes darken. "Couldn't sleep," she says shortly. "I get...nightmares, sometimes, since – anyway. Back home, when I get restless and stuff, it helps to find something to tinker with. Her voice softens. "Feels good to be able to actually fix somethin'. Other things...just stay broke, no matter how hard you try."
Her straightforward honesty makes Pepper uncomfortable. She's not supposed to be having this sort of conversation with Tony's one-night stands. "I'm surprised," she remarks dryly, deliberately distancing herself. "I'm sure Mr. Stark would have been more than happy to provide you with something to, ah, 'tinker' with."
Kaylee looks at her blankly for a moment, then bursts out laughing. It's rather disconcerting. "Oh, I'm sorry," she manages between giggles. "I didn't even realize – but oh, of course that's what you thought!"
Pepper frowns. "What do you mean?"
"Me 'n Tony, we ain't – I mean, we didn't—" Kaylee flails her hands, giggling. "We was arguin' about mechanics all night, and he finally brought me back here with him to prove a point about something or other, and by then it was real late so he let me crash here. Not that he didn't try," she adds, grinning, "but I already got a boyfriend, and Simon's real understanding an' all, but not that understanding."
Hell has frozen over, it is raining stones, and the earth has flipped on its axis. A woman – other than Pepper Potts – has rejected Tony Stark. "You mean you didn't—"
"Like I said, he did make me a certain proposition," Kaylee says with a wink. "I just explained real clearly how I was flattered, really, but it was gonna be in his best interest to take his hands off me if he ever wanted to use 'em again. Also other more important bits." That shadow passes across her face again. "He was just nice to talk to, is all. Nice to spend time with someone without havin' to remember – well."
Pepper blinks. "So you spent the night—"
"Really, Miss Potts, there is a guest bedroom in this place," Tony says from the stairwell.
Pepper nearly jumps out of her skin, but she recovers quickly. "Well, I know that, of course, but you've never given any indication you're aware of it," she shoots back.
Tony leans decadently against the wall. He's very good at decadent. "Sure I am. That's where Rhodey sleeps when he's had one too many and can't find his way home." He pauses, frowning. "At least, when he doesn't just pass out on the living room floor. Speaking of nothing in particular, what's, um, the girl doing down here?"
"It's Kaylee," Kaylee reminds him, completely unembarrassed. She holds up some sort of engine part gizmo thing and waves it in front of him. "See, I told you it weren't the harmonic balancer! The rocker arm was all busted up and the piston ring—"
"There's nothing wrong with the pistons! Did you even bother opening up the hood? That crank shaft—"
"Look, I know your stuff works different than the engines I'm used to, but you can't ding up the thermal regulator like that and just expect the gears to keep on spinning—"
Pepper shakes her head and physically inserts herself between them and the car. "Mr. Stark, if I might remind you, Obadiah has some Saudi investors coming in at nine and—"
"Yeah, and I'm gonna need a lift back out of here, I think," Kaylee says, giving Pepper a wry smile. "Um, could you just get me to Las Vegas again? I think I can find my way back from there."
"Of course," Pepper says smoothly. "Never let it be said that Stark Enterprises lacks hospitality." She shoots Tony a glare. He grins saucily back at her. "Where do you need to be, Miss, ah, Kaylee?"
"Like I told you before, I'm not exactly sure," Kaylee says, not sounding particularly concerned. "I'll give the captain a call once I'm back in Nevada." She grins. "Forgetting where you've parked your spaceship an' all – sounds a bits silly, don't it?"
They just look at her for a long moment. Pepper feels a sinking sensation in her stomach, much like that time with Colonel Rhodes' modified F-16 and the secret military base just off Oahu. She hadn't seen Tony for a week after that, and he'd returned with a very wide grin, no trousers, and some rather questionable theories about the many and varied uses of transonic shock waves.
Imminent public relations disaster brewing in three...two...one—
"...spaceship?" Tony says.
"You have a board meeting in forty-seven minutes," Pepper protests weakly, but really, spaceship. She knows she never stood a chance.
iv. occam's razor
There might well be a case here, but this Dr. Tam is going about presenting it completely wrong. Chase may have only had this fellowship two months, but that much he knows.
"And you call yourself a medical professional," House says caustically. "Irrational behavior, intermittent psychosis, mood swings – I'm sorry, you need help finding your ass with your own hands, too? The diagnosis is obvious."
"I'm aware of that, Dr. House," Tam remarks.
Chase isn't particularly impressed with the man. Dr. Tam is on the young side, but otherwise unremarkable. Blandly attractive, the image of wealth and good breeding; a perfect prig, Chase is sure. His voice is light and hesitant, with just a trace of sarcasm – possibly his only redeeming feature.
"Then why bother coming to me?" House demands.
Tam opens his briefcase and pulls out some scans; Chase can't see them clearly from where he sits at the far end of the diagnostics office. "I believe you might find these to be of passing interest, Dr. House. I've heard you enjoy a good puzzle."
House looks less than impressed, but he snatches up the scans anyway, probably to prove just how utterly uninteresting they are. "The mystery patient's brain, I presume? I don't doubt the frontal lobe activity is unusual – psychotics do tend to have some weird—" He cuts himself off, gaze sharpening intently upon the scan in his hand. "What the hell?"
Curiosity duly piqued, Chase stands and walks around the table to House. "What's up?"
House passes off one of the scans to him without a word, still examining the others. Chase takes it and looks it over. It takes a few moments for him to orient himself – neurology isn't exactly his specialty, although he has the feeling that if he sticks out the diagnostics fellowship, there won't be many areas of medicine left that he won't be an expert in.
Tangentially, he thinks they could probably use a neurologist onboard sometimes, and makes a mental note to mention it to House at some point. Not that House ever takes his advice.
But the brain scan – it takes some looking, but then he sees it. "What the hell?" he echoes.
"You've noticed the damage," Tam says. His eyes are dark, and Chase can see the flicker of anger there, barely suppressed. He takes the scans back from them and begins mounting them on the lightbox for better examination. "Even with just a CAT scan, it's readily apparent, and with more advanced neuroimaging, the extent of the damage only becomes more appalling. Needless to say, the effects on the patient's mental health are – well, staggering. It took me months of treatment to get her even remotely stabilized, and she still has...episodes."
"You know," House remarks snidely, hobbling forward for a closer look, "it might help if we could see the patient."
"You've never needed to see a patient before," Chase mutters under his breath.
Tam shakes his head. "That's not possible, I'm afraid. At any rate, I'm not here for your much-vaunted diagnostic skills, Dr. House. I know what was done to her."
House snorts, gesturing to the scans. "Yeah, well, the whole lobotomy thing does tend to stand out."
"What I'm looking for is a way to reverse the damage," Tam goes on doggedly. "I've tried a number of variations on the standard cocktails of antipsychotic medications—"
"Right, and I'm sure the patient just loved being high as a kite twenty-four/seven—"
"She didn't," Tam says flatly. "She hated it, and it had a negligible effect on her psychological well-being anyway. I'm open to suggestions here, doctor." His voice softens. "Please."
"Spare me the sentimentality," House sneers. "If you're coming to me, you already know it's hopeless. I'm a diagnostician, not a psychoanalyst. Your little wunderkind doesn't need me. Oh, you did realize your patient was rather mentally enhanced before someone took a butcher's knife to her brain, right?"
"More than you can possibly conceive," Tam murmurs. There's something soft in his eyes that makes Chase wonder what exactly his relation to the patient is. And that's always a bad sign.
Chase clears his throat. "If you don't mind me asking, what branch of medicine do you specialize in, Dr. Tam?"
"I was a trauma surgeon," Tam says. Chase notices the slip – was, past tense – but doesn't remark upon it. "Not a neurologist, unfortunately, though I'm not entirely untrained in that area. I took a keen interest in neurology at med – medical school. My younger sister was what you might call a genius, and the workings of her mind always fascinated me." His lips twist into a wry smile. "I never expected my interest in that area to take such prominence in my life. Professionally, of course."
"Of course," House says snidely. "How convenient for you. But one thing confuses me. Why would a trauma surgeon be given a neurological case of this complexity, Dr. Tam?"
Tam shrugs. "It's a long story, and I'm not inclined to share it with you."
House eyes him intently. "You don't seem inclined to share very much at all, in fact, apart from these very unusual scans. I suspect you share rather a bit more with your lovely patient."
Tam's mouth tightens.
"Can't take the competition, huh?" House waggles his eyebrows. "Psychotics can be pretty kinky, I'll admit. Never know what might turn 'em on. My scarred leg, her scarred brain – it's like a match made in heaven. Or at least by someone with a really good imagination."
For a second, Chase thinks Tam might actually punch House. That would be interesting. "And you wonder why I'm not introducing her to you," Tam mutters instead.
House sighs. "So. Diagnosis: badly botched lobotomy for evil mastermind-like purposes. Result: psychosis. Treatment: not fucking much. So why come to me?" It's a good point. Interesting as the case might be, there's nothing for them to do here.
But Chase can see the way House is still glancing back at those scans, the strange, almost hungry gleam in his eyes.
"You have a reputation, Dr. House," Tam says. "I haven't been...in this area long, but already I've heard you're one of the finest minds in medicine. The damage to the patient's brain is right there in front of you. How can we set it right again? There's your puzzle. Isn't it one worth solving?"
"It's impossible," House replies flatly, deliberately turning his back on the lightbox. "You're wasting your time, and you know it. Stop wasting mine." And with that, he's gone, hobbling out of the office in search of someone new to torment or possibly lunch.
Tam looks neither surprised or angry, both reactions Chase would have expected. "He's not going to let it go that easily," Tam remarks, watching House's retreating form with some satisfaction. "Good. Well, Dr. Chase, I'm afraid I've taken up too much of your morning already. I'll show myself out."
"You knew," Chase says, realization dawning. "You knew all along we wouldn't be able to help."
"Of course," Tam replies. He carefully takes down the patient's scans, returning them to his briefcase. "The technology to repair the damage to the patient's brain doesn't exist yet. Even those who caused it don't have the means to cure it."
"Then why come here?" Chase demands. "Why go through all the trouble?"
There's an odd glint in Tam's eyes. "I got you thinking about it, didn't I? Medical progress is an amazing thing, Dr. Chase. All it takes is the hint of a possibility."
"It also takes time," Chase points out. "Generations, even."
Tam smiles and turns to leave. "Five hundred years will be good enough for me," he murmurs on his way out the door.
One scan of the patient's brain is left behind, stark against the white brightness of the lightbox. Chase takes it down and just holds it a moment, wondering.
continued here, or follow the fake cuts below
( v. the unquiet dead (doctor who) )
( vi. evidence of things not seen (west wing) )
( vii. detour (x-files) )
( epilogue: downloaded (battlestar galactica) )
Respite
by kaydee falls
fandoms: TOO GODDAMN MANY. Firefly, clearly.
rating: pg-13
summary: The sky will still be there when they're ready to return to it. Post-movie.
disclaimer: none of them are mine. not a one.
notes: with huge thanks to
newredshoes for the beta, and then some.i. crossroad blues
Jayne and Kaylee'd stuck together at first, until they hit this glorified jien huo of a city, in the middle of desert that looked like a thousand anonymous border moons. Kaylee was drawn to the brightly-lit casinos like a fly to shit, lured in by all the glitz and glamour. Well, Jayne reflects, she'd always had an unnatural fascination for anything that smelled of the Core. Jayne selects a more familiar sort of den off the Strip, a dive with all the grime, pool, and booze a man could need.
Jayne takes a swig of beer, leaning on his pool cue as some other guy takes an improbable shot. He wonders with a snort how Kaylee's "finding herself" in that casino thing. He's not sure what to make of this driving need to find themselves that's brought the crew to this old rock. Jayne's pretty damn sure there ain't nothing of himself left to find.
As he carefully aims his cue for a particularly tricky shot, someone jostles Jayne from behind, making his elbow jerk up at exactly the wrong moment. The balls scatter every which way, not a one of them in a direction Jayne intended, and he whips his cue around with a curse to face the hwoon dahn who just ruined the game.
Pretty boy, Jayne notes, but none too clean; none too sober, either. Pretty Boy gives Jayne a shit-eating grin, remarks, "You'd never've made that shot, anyway."
"Hard to tell now, ain't it," Jayne snarls.
Pretty Boy snorts. "What, you gonna go cry about it?"
Jayne pauses, considers, and then belts Pretty Boy in the jaw.
It's a nice little scuffle. Pretty Boy recovers from the punch too fast, so Jayne knows he was fixin' for a fight anyway, and they lay into each other with gleeful abandon. It feels good, throwing punches and getting slammed into things, a purely physical pleasure with no undue mental activity required. Not quite as nice as certain other activities Jayne might mention, but the release is sweet all the same. Jayne's sick to death of thinking these days.
He tries to make a proper brawl of it, being sure to throw Pretty Boy into a cluster of other patrons, but the chickenshit barkeep intervenes and throws them out before they can make a real mess of the place. Jayne finds himself flat on his back on the hot pavement, ears ringing a bit from the impact, Pretty Boy sprawled in an undignified heap beside him.
Pulling himself back upright, Jayne mentally catalogues his injuries. Skull: bruised a bit, but no serious damage. No loose teeth. Nose a bit banged up, but not broken or even bleeding. Hell of a twisted shoulder, that'll give him a twinge in the morning. Possibly a cracked rib, but it doesn't hurt too bad to breathe, so it should heal up quick enough. Sore knuckles.
Yeah, it was a good fight.
"Ruttin' bastards, I didn't even get to finish my beer," he complains companionably, dusting himself off.
Pretty Boy starts to sit up, groaning. "At least we don't have to pay for it."
"True enough." Jayne looks him over carefully. Not so pretty anymore, now that Jayne's sorted out his face a bit. It's definitely an improvement. And he took his beating like a man. This one's all right, Jayne decides. "Nice to meetcha," he says affably, holding out a hand to help the guy up. Not-So-Pretty-Anymore Boy eyes him warily, then accepts the offered assistance. "Jayne Cobb. And don't you ruttin' start with the girl's name thing."
"Yeah," the guy says, mouth twisting at the corner into a wry smile. He touches his swelling cheek and winces. "Wouldn't want anyone to think you're a pussy or anything, would you. Dean Winchester."
They take a few moments to stretch and curse, working out the kinks left by the scuffle.
"So what do you do?" Dean asks, flexing his fingers experimentally.
"Track things," Jayne says. "Or people. Sometimes there's shooting involved, other times there ain't. Don't make much difference long as I get my cut, dong-ma?"
"Dong-what?"
Jayne just shrugs. People 'round here are dumb as a ton of bricks, don't even know basic Mandarin.
Dean looks him over, kinda shifty-like. "So, you'd call yourself a sorta...hunter, maybe?"
"Hunter," Jayne repeats, pleased. He'd never have called himself that before, but he likes the sound of it. Very rugged, very manly. Respectable, too, much more so than hired gun. "Yeah, you could say that."
"Figures," Dean says, visibly relaxing. They start heading down the street, drawn by the cheap fluorescent lure of another bar. "You got a whiff of this jackass, too, huh? Can't say I'm surprised, we could've held a fucking convention for this one. Not exactly what you might call inconspicuous."
Jayne wonders what the hell he's talking about. He settles for a noncommittal "Vegas, huh?"
Dean laughs. "Yeah, fucking Vegas. Sorry, though, man, looks like we nailed him first."
"Uh," Jayne says. "Yeah. Shit. Them's the breaks."
"You missed a real show, lemme tell you. That bastard had a hell of a thing for the slots. And all I got out of it was a Ziploc bag full of nickels."
"Ah," Jayne says sagely. He's not sure what a nickel is, but from the way Dean says it, it probably ain't worth much. Come to think on it, he's not too sure what anything's worth around here, but Mal handed him a fistful of green paper when they landed, and it seems to be doing the trick so far.
The new bar is just as disreputable as the one they were thrown out of, much to Jayne's approval. They order a couple of beers and park themselves in a dingy corner booth.
"So," Jayne says. "Uh, who was the guy, anyway? The one you, you know, hunted."
"What you'd probably expect," Dean says. His gaze sharpens. "What did you expect, Mr. Cobb?"
Shit. "Well, you know," he tries, flailing about for some sorta smart-sounding response. "Casinos like this place has, with the...slots...and all... Hell, I've pulled a con or two at a casino myself. You know the sort."
Dean's eyes continue narrowing. "I don't know, do I? You tell me. Hunter."
Shit. "Hey, uh, I think maybe there's been some kinda misunderstanding..."
"Fuck," Dean bites out. In a flash, he's a lot closer to Jayne than Jayne's strictly comfortable with, and there's a glimpse of something in his palm.
Then Jayne feels something very, very sharp pressing against his right side.
"Not one fucking word, man," Dean growls. "You think I'm a goddamn idiot?"
Okay. Jayne holds himself very still. He's not sure what exactly Dean's got shoved up against his kidney, knife or stiletto or what-the-fuck-ever, but it's in his best interest not to say or do anything that leads to his becoming more intimately acquainted with it. He looks straight into Dean's eyes, assessing. The boy's angry, yeah, no rutting kidding, but Jayne gets the feeling he's more angry with himself. For blabbing too much about – well, the hunting thing, whatever the hell that's about. Angry, and just a little bit scared, or he wouldn't have gone for his weapon so fast. And he very clearly does not have his next move planned out yet. What this kid really wants is for someone else to come in and fix this problem for him – or to prove himself to someone by sorting it out on his own.
"Hey," Jayne says softly, gritting his teeth. "Why don't we all calm down, huh? Ain't nobody threatening you and yours, boy."
"Oh, I disagree," Dean snaps. "Trickster. Thought we dispatched your ass already."
"Don't know what in seven hells you're on about," Jayne replies. "Hunters, tricksters – don't mean nothin' to me. Just trying to enjoy my drink."
He's got a knife strapped to his left leg. Slowly, carefully, he starts inching his hand downward.
"Yeah, right," Dean says, all bluster, but Jayne can see the hesitation in his eyes. Like maybe he's not so goddamned sure of himself. Just another dumb fucking soldier without his captain. Jayne could almost sympathize, if it weren't for the sharp pointy thing. "Tell me," Dean goes on, "what the hell do you want with us, anyway?"
"Don't want a damn thing. Just passing through."
"You bastards just can't leave well enough alone, can you?" And Dean's not talking to him, anymore, not really. "None of you. You sick fuck. What, you're just bored?"
Just bored. Yeah, that's right. Jayne thinks about drifting, the empty shell of a ship, three fresh graves on an unfamiliar moon, and doesn't reply. He hates thinking. His fists itch for a fight.
Looks like he's gonna get one.
"Dean!" someone bellows from across the bar. Dean flinches. There's an older guy bearing down on them, looks like he's in some kinda rush or something. "What the hell do you think you're doin', son?" he demands once he's reached them, much quieter this time.
Dean's eyes flash with anger – and maybe just a hint of relief. He jerks his head at Jayne. "The fucking Trickster's back."
The old guy barely spares a glance in Jayne's direction, instead staring at point beyond them. "No fucking kidding."
That's when Jayne gets hit in the side of the head with something very small and very hard.
"Ow! What the—"
It's followed by a veritable rain of small, hard objects. Nickels, Jayne thinks hazily.
"Oh, shit," Dean says, jumping out of the booth. He bares his weapon, which Jayne can now see is a jagged hunk of very sharp wood. It isn't doing much to deflect the storm of coins. Somewhere in the bar, someone – something – is laughing, high and strange. "Here we go." He glances back at Jayne, chagrined. "Um...oops?"
The other man – Dean's captain, clearly – slaps Jayne on the shoulder. "You. Any good in a fight?"
Jayne just grins and grabs a chair, cracking off one leg. This is gonna be fun.
ii. all of them are true
The problem with having a gun, Vince thinks, is that every now and then Stuart actually wants to shoot the bloody thing.
"You know," Vince remarks, making sure to keep well back, "sooner or later, the cactus is going to get tired of being shot at and shoot back."
"Fuck off," Stuart mutters, taking careful aim. This time, he just barely clips the edge of it. What d'you call that bit, anyway? Vince wonders. The cactus branch? The limb? The pointing-out-bit?
Later, he'll suppose they didn't hear her sneak up on them because their ears were still ringing from all the gunshots.
"What in God's name are you doing?" she asks from behind them, and it's all Vince can do to refrain from shrieking. He might levitate a bit; but then, Stuart certainly does. But shrieking, now, that Vince would never live down.
The woman is tall, black – African-American, the prissy part of Vince's brain corrects – and has a figure that could only be described as voluptuous. She's also carrying a gun nearly half her size.
"Oh, my God," Vince remarks, awed. "We're going to die."
"It's a free country, innit?" Stuart tells the killer woman cockily. "At least that's what it said in all the brochures."
The woman raises one eyebrow. She does not look impressed.
"Oh God," Vince says. "I'll bet she's a cop or a – a game warden or something. I'll bet she has some sort of badge. I'll bet she has a license to kill. Look, please, we'll go away, don't shoot us," he pleads with her. "Or, well, shoot him, it was his bloody stupid idea to make your cactus into his fucking target practice. Oh, my God, the cactus isn't, like, endangered or something, is it? This might be some sort of national park or wildlife reserve or sommat—"
"We're in the middle of the fucking desert, Vince," Stuart snaps. "There's nothing reserved about this wildlife – or the fucking lack of any, I should say. Are cacti even classified as living things, technically? Because they really shouldn't be. Look at them."
The woman has apparently decided they don't pose any sort of threat. She leans on her absurdly large gun, looking faintly amused. "I'm not a fed," she says finally. "Heard the shots and came looking to see if there was any trouble." She shakes her head, looking them over. "Just a pair of idiots poking holes in plants, though. Or trying to."
"I hit it once," Stuart says indignantly, brandishing the revolver.
The woman winces. "I should hope so, seeing as you're standing hardly twenty feet away. And please don't wave it around like that, you're liable to hurt someone – even if you can't seem to do much damage a-purpose."
"What d'you know about it?" Stuart demands, stung.
Vince rolls his eyes and mutters, "Well, she clearly knows how to handle a weapon, Stuart."
"Questioning my technique, Vince? Funny, I don't remember hearing any complaints in that department."
"Just bolstering your fragile ego, me."
"Not the only thing you've been bolstering."
The woman cocks her head and studies them, then visibly relaxes. "So you're sly," she says. "That's all right, then."
"Sly," Stuart says, rolling the word around his tongue. He grins. "I like it, Vince. Suits me."
"'Course it does, you bastard," Vince mutters, feeling his ears go pink. "Look, miss, I'm so sorry we bothered you, we'll just be going—"
He cuts himself off, because the oddest thing is happening. The woman sets her enormous weapon gently on the ground, then walks right up to Stuart and holds out her hand. "Your stance is all wrong," she says. "Here, let me show you."
Stuart regards her warily. "I don't let just anyone touch my gun, sweetheart, and no offense, but you don't have the right equipment."
She rolls her eyes. "I'm well aware of that. Just give it to me."
Stuart glances back at Vince, who just shrugs. "If she was going to shoot you, she'd do it with her own gun, I think," he points out. "Seems like a lot of trouble to take your own and – ooh, unless she's trying to make it look like you—"
"Shut up, Vince," Stuart says, and gives the woman his gun.
"All right, now watch me," she says, and holds the gun firmly in both hands, pointing it at the unfortunate cactus. "I know it looks real shiny in all the vids to swing it around one-handed, but even a small weapon like this has a kick to it, and until you're used to handling it, it's best to keep a firm grip. Helps with the aim, too." She fires one shot. It blows a lovely hole dead center in the cactus. "Now you try."
Stuart reclaims the gun, reluctantly following her lead. Before he has a chance to aim, though, she's prodding at him, correcting his stance. Vince just watches, amused and curious.
She slaps Stuart's arm. "You need some tension there! This isn't a toy, it's a real live weapon with real live bullets. You have to be in complete control of where those bullets go or you will get hurt."
"Or I'll get hurt, more like," Vince mutters. The woman glances back at him, the faintest traces of what might be a smile playing across her lips. Just for a second, and then it's gone.
It's strange, Vince thinks, watching the way this stranger is manipulating Stuart's body. She's so clinical about it, completely detached. Well, not that she'd have posed any sort of sexual threat in any case – what with the whole female thing, and all – but still. It's as though she's completely turned off any potential for sensuality. She's treating Stuart as though he's just a piece of machinery, an extension of the gun in his hands. Which, Vince supposes, is the whole point of this little exercise.
Or maybe she's just a lesbian.
Finally, she's satisfied, and allows Stuart to actually fire the thing. He hits the cactus – not dead on, not even close, but still. He hits it.
"Better," she says. "Keep practicing."
"I'm out of bullets," Stuart replies flatly.
Vince rolls his eyes. "And whose fault is that? You've only been missing at cacti for over an hour now."
"Didn't I say we should buy more ammo at the last place? You're the one who's always on about how dangerous it is. What's the point of having a gun if I'm not supposed to bloody fire it?"
"The point is not to need to fire it, you twat. Waving it about every now and then is all well and good, but there's no need to go all cowboy just 'cause we're in the American West."
"Oo-er, I'd like to see that. Get you in some chaps and a big fuck-off hat—"
"Chance'd be a fine thing. Bastard."
"What the hell are the two of you doing out here, anyway?" the woman interrupts, eying them bemusedly.
Vince and Stuart exchange a grin. "Whatever the fuck we want," Stuart tells her.
"We're traveling," Vince explains. "Seeing the universe. Or, well, this part of it, anyway. For now."
"Just...traveling? For any particular reason?"
"Long as we keep moving," Vince says, "it's reason enough."
The woman just looks at him, considering.
"What about you, then?" Vince asks. "You live around here or something?"
"Not exactly," she says. "Just...resting here a spell."
Stuart snorts. "And hunting for tourists, apparently. Ta very much for the lesson, it's been quite enlightening. And don't think I didn't notice you trying to cop a feel there, either." He turns to Vince. "Come on, I'm fucking starving. Let's go find a rest stop or something."
"There's sandwiches in the glove compartment," Vince says absently.
"I don't want sandwiches, Vince, I want real food. With as much grease and improbably colored condiments as possible. You coming?"
"Be there in a second," Vince tells him, still watching the woman. There's something – well, not vulnerable, that's entirely the wrong word, but something about her, and he's curious. And she didn't try to cop a feel off Stuart. He'd have noticed.
"Right then," Stuart says, cocking an eyebrow. "I'll get the engine going. But if you're not there in five minutes, I swear to God I'm going without you. I'm that hungry." He waves back at the woman flippantly and heads off to the car.
The woman and Vince eye each other for a moment.
"D'you need a lift?" Vince asks, a little awkwardly. "I mean, you're out in the middle of nowhere, and unless you've got a horse hidden behind that cactus or something—"
"I'm all right, thanks," she says. She closes her eyes for a second. "I like the middle of nowhere part. It's peaceful."
"Until we came along, anyway," Vince says wryly. "Look, I'm sorry about Stuart, I know he can be a bit of an arse sometimes – actually, all of the time—"
She smiles faintly. It's the first he's seen her smile. "You and him, you're..."
"Yeah," he says. "We are." She just looks at him, and so he just keeps talking, because that's what he does when he doesn't know what else to do. "I know it doesn't make much sense, the two of us, but we make it work somehow. Didn't think it'd last a week at first, to be honest – I must've been completely mad, running off with him like that, but, well, even if it only lasted a week, it'd have been worth it. All of it."
"How long has it been?" she asks softly.
He actually has to stop and think about it. "Well, I mean, we've been friends since we were just kids, so that's like almost two decades, oh my God we're old, but that's not what you meant, is it? No, of course not. We're – four years. It's been four years. Give or take a month or so."
The woman's eyes are shadowed. "It's always worth it," she says. "Every second of it. Don't you forget that."
"I won't," he says, surprised by the strength of her reaction.
A car horn beeps, loud and obnoxious.
"That'll be Stuart, then," Vince sighs. "He's that tetchy when he misses his lunch."
"Go on, then," the woman says. She leans down and retrieves her frighteningly enormous weapon, swinging it easily across her back. Vince winces but doesn't comment.
"Right," he says. "Look, it was nice meeting you – oh, God, I've just realized, I don't even know your name."
She shrugs. "Doesn't matter much, does it? Anyway, it's Zoe."
"Zoe. Right. Lovely name. I'm Vince."
"Yeah," she says. "So I gathered."
"Right," he says again. "Well, bye then, I guess. Enjoy your, um, quiet. And your appallingly large gun. Which, thank you, by the way, for deciding not to shoot us, I thought I should mention how much I appreciate that. And for teaching Stuart how to shoot cacti, although really, I've a feeling I'm going to regret that in the end. Why did you, by the way? Help him out, I mean."
She gives him that faint almost-smile again. "No particular reason. Maybe because you reminded me of my—" She cuts herself off, blinking. "Of a man I used to know."
Stuart slams on the horn again.
"Goodbye, Vince," Zoe says. It has a finality about it. Vince knows he's not going to meet her again.
"Bye," he says. "And, y'know, thanks. Again."
She just nods and turns away, walking back out across the desert rock.
Vince jogs back to the car and swings himself into the passenger seat.
"Jesus, Vince, what the fuck took you so long?" Stuart demands. "God, you weren't bonding with her, or something, were you? Some desert woman with a weird-looking gun, add a spaceship and I suppose she'd be straight out of Doctor Who or sommat—"
Vince leans over and kisses him. Snogs the living daylights out of him, really, teeth clashing and tongues battling it out and all.
"All right then," Stuart says, a bit breathlessly, when they finally pull apart. "What was that for?"
Vince thinks about Zoe's retreating figure, straight-backed and solitary and sad. "No particular reason," he says. "Just felt like it. Now, I thought you were hungry or something?"
"Yeah," Stuart says, eyes gleaming, as he grabs Vince's shirt and pulls him back in. "Yeah, I am."
iii. taking out the trash
Pepper has Tony Stark's sleeping habits down to a science. She enters the Stark mansion at precisely 6:00 every morning. By precisely 6:02, she can determine: a) did Tony sleep last night, and if so, b) did Tony sleep here last night, and if so, c) did Tony sleep here alone last night? It should be noted that the answer to question c is very rarely affirmative.
This morning, stepping through the doors, she immediately notes the presence of a woman's Asian-style embroidered jacket on the floor of the foyer. She feels almost disappointed; usually, it's not this blatantly obvious. It's almost an insult to her powers of deductive reasoning.
"Good morning, Miss Potts," Jarvis says pleasantly, as is his wont.
"As always," Pepper replies.
Heading toward the staircase, she stops in her tracks and gapes.
The entrance to the basement workshop is open.
Now, this mandates a certain degree of reevaluation. Tony is very, very protective of his toys – to put it mildly. He's also a careless, unfocused, and frequently inebriated genius. It's not all that bizarre for him to leave the door to his super-secret clubhouse open – if he's alone in the house. But he never with one of his chickadees about the place. And judging by that woman's jacket strewn so brazenly across the foyer, there is definitely some hot little number upstairs in his bed right now. So what the hell is he doing leaving his favorite secret passageway open for any dumb blonde to stumble through?
It occurs to Pepper that perhaps he is alone, and last night's squeeze simply forgot her jacket when she slipped out. But wasn't Tony at some fancy fundraiser in Las Vegas last night? Assuming he picked this unknown girl up there – no great stretch of the imagination – where on earth would she have slipped away to? His private jet's still in the hangar where it landed at just after 2:15 this morning. Pepper checked.
Unless the jacket doesn't actually belong to anyone, and Tony's just fucking with her head, in which case she is going to kick his ass.
Thus bolstered by righteous indignation, coupled by the fact that it's only 6:05am and the idiot teenager at Starbuck's accidentally handed her a decaf, Pepper Potts descends into the workshop.
"Really, Mr. Stark," she says, "I don't see what you could possibly—"
And then she cuts herself off, because the person currently sprawled under the belly of the latest toy (a very shiny red car that Tony spent about twenty minutes enthusiastically describing to her, down to model number and all sorts of mechanical specifications, but which Pepper will only ever think of as "shiny" and "red"), with wrench in hand and a wide variety of other tools scattered about the floor nearby, is not Tony Stark.
In fact, unless Pepper is greatly mistaken, this is the owner of that lovely embroidered jacket.
The girl pokes her head out. "Oh, hey there! Gimme just one second." She ducks back under the car and twists the wrench in a couple of places, then scoots back out again. "Thought that was the problem," she says with an air of great satisfaction. "This is nothin' like the hovercraft my daddy used to fix up, but the parts ain't so different after all."
"How did you get down here?" Pepper demands, aghast.
The girl shrugs. "Had a little chat with your AI system, is all."
"I apologize, Ms. Potts," Jarvis says, somewhat ruefully. "She made a very compelling argument."
"Just explained how I was real handy with a screwdriver and all," the girl adds affably. "Real handy."
"I...see," Pepper says.
The girl grins, bright and friendly. "Oh, I'm so sorry, I just realized, we ain't been introduced." She starts to stick out her hand, then frowns down at it, as though suddenly realizing she's half-covered with oil and engine grease. A light blush colors her cheeks. "And here I ain't half fit for polite company," she mutters. "Anyway, I'm Kaylee. Nice to meet you. Prob'ly shouldn't shake your hand just now, though."
Pepper starts to smile, then catches herself. "Pepper Potts," she says briskly. "Lovely to meet you. Pity there's no time for a chat, but I'm afraid it's time to get you off home. I'll call a car to take you back to...?" She trails off delicately, raising a questioning eyebrow.
"Dunno exactly," Kaylee says amiably, apparently not in the least put off by Pepper's chilly demeanor. "Not sure where I am now, y'see."
Pepper blinks. "Mr. Stark's residence, of course. Malibu."
Kaylee just looks at her blankly.
"...California?"
"Sorry," Kaylee says with a shrug. "I'm not from around here, you might say. Don't seem like we get the luxury of hangin' about any one place for long, these days." There's a shadow behind her eyes, bleak and lost, and then it passes. She plasters on a wide, cheerful grin. "Looks like a real nice place, though."
"Yes, well, I'm sure you got the grand tour," Pepper mutters.
"Didn't mean to offend or anything," Kaylee says hastily. "Sorry to be a bother, I can go now, really. Just lemme tighten up a few bolts first, wouldn't want the engine to fall off next time someone takes her out for a swing." And she ducks back under the car.
Pepper puts her hands on her hips, peering after the girl. "What on earth are you doing down here anyway?"
"Won't be a minute," Kaylee sings out, voice muffled by the machinery. "Don't like leaving a job half finished is all. When I don't have to." After a few more moments, she pulls herself back out again, wiping her arm across her forehead. It leaves a streak of grease, but she doesn't seem to notice. "The way Tony was talking last night, I figured he had to have a workshop stored away down here somewhere. Found it is all."
"But why?"
Kaylee shrugs uncomfortably. Her eyes darken. "Couldn't sleep," she says shortly. "I get...nightmares, sometimes, since – anyway. Back home, when I get restless and stuff, it helps to find something to tinker with. Her voice softens. "Feels good to be able to actually fix somethin'. Other things...just stay broke, no matter how hard you try."
Her straightforward honesty makes Pepper uncomfortable. She's not supposed to be having this sort of conversation with Tony's one-night stands. "I'm surprised," she remarks dryly, deliberately distancing herself. "I'm sure Mr. Stark would have been more than happy to provide you with something to, ah, 'tinker' with."
Kaylee looks at her blankly for a moment, then bursts out laughing. It's rather disconcerting. "Oh, I'm sorry," she manages between giggles. "I didn't even realize – but oh, of course that's what you thought!"
Pepper frowns. "What do you mean?"
"Me 'n Tony, we ain't – I mean, we didn't—" Kaylee flails her hands, giggling. "We was arguin' about mechanics all night, and he finally brought me back here with him to prove a point about something or other, and by then it was real late so he let me crash here. Not that he didn't try," she adds, grinning, "but I already got a boyfriend, and Simon's real understanding an' all, but not that understanding."
Hell has frozen over, it is raining stones, and the earth has flipped on its axis. A woman – other than Pepper Potts – has rejected Tony Stark. "You mean you didn't—"
"Like I said, he did make me a certain proposition," Kaylee says with a wink. "I just explained real clearly how I was flattered, really, but it was gonna be in his best interest to take his hands off me if he ever wanted to use 'em again. Also other more important bits." That shadow passes across her face again. "He was just nice to talk to, is all. Nice to spend time with someone without havin' to remember – well."
Pepper blinks. "So you spent the night—"
"Really, Miss Potts, there is a guest bedroom in this place," Tony says from the stairwell.
Pepper nearly jumps out of her skin, but she recovers quickly. "Well, I know that, of course, but you've never given any indication you're aware of it," she shoots back.
Tony leans decadently against the wall. He's very good at decadent. "Sure I am. That's where Rhodey sleeps when he's had one too many and can't find his way home." He pauses, frowning. "At least, when he doesn't just pass out on the living room floor. Speaking of nothing in particular, what's, um, the girl doing down here?"
"It's Kaylee," Kaylee reminds him, completely unembarrassed. She holds up some sort of engine part gizmo thing and waves it in front of him. "See, I told you it weren't the harmonic balancer! The rocker arm was all busted up and the piston ring—"
"There's nothing wrong with the pistons! Did you even bother opening up the hood? That crank shaft—"
"Look, I know your stuff works different than the engines I'm used to, but you can't ding up the thermal regulator like that and just expect the gears to keep on spinning—"
Pepper shakes her head and physically inserts herself between them and the car. "Mr. Stark, if I might remind you, Obadiah has some Saudi investors coming in at nine and—"
"Yeah, and I'm gonna need a lift back out of here, I think," Kaylee says, giving Pepper a wry smile. "Um, could you just get me to Las Vegas again? I think I can find my way back from there."
"Of course," Pepper says smoothly. "Never let it be said that Stark Enterprises lacks hospitality." She shoots Tony a glare. He grins saucily back at her. "Where do you need to be, Miss, ah, Kaylee?"
"Like I told you before, I'm not exactly sure," Kaylee says, not sounding particularly concerned. "I'll give the captain a call once I'm back in Nevada." She grins. "Forgetting where you've parked your spaceship an' all – sounds a bits silly, don't it?"
They just look at her for a long moment. Pepper feels a sinking sensation in her stomach, much like that time with Colonel Rhodes' modified F-16 and the secret military base just off Oahu. She hadn't seen Tony for a week after that, and he'd returned with a very wide grin, no trousers, and some rather questionable theories about the many and varied uses of transonic shock waves.
Imminent public relations disaster brewing in three...two...one—
"...spaceship?" Tony says.
"You have a board meeting in forty-seven minutes," Pepper protests weakly, but really, spaceship. She knows she never stood a chance.
iv. occam's razor
There might well be a case here, but this Dr. Tam is going about presenting it completely wrong. Chase may have only had this fellowship two months, but that much he knows.
"And you call yourself a medical professional," House says caustically. "Irrational behavior, intermittent psychosis, mood swings – I'm sorry, you need help finding your ass with your own hands, too? The diagnosis is obvious."
"I'm aware of that, Dr. House," Tam remarks.
Chase isn't particularly impressed with the man. Dr. Tam is on the young side, but otherwise unremarkable. Blandly attractive, the image of wealth and good breeding; a perfect prig, Chase is sure. His voice is light and hesitant, with just a trace of sarcasm – possibly his only redeeming feature.
"Then why bother coming to me?" House demands.
Tam opens his briefcase and pulls out some scans; Chase can't see them clearly from where he sits at the far end of the diagnostics office. "I believe you might find these to be of passing interest, Dr. House. I've heard you enjoy a good puzzle."
House looks less than impressed, but he snatches up the scans anyway, probably to prove just how utterly uninteresting they are. "The mystery patient's brain, I presume? I don't doubt the frontal lobe activity is unusual – psychotics do tend to have some weird—" He cuts himself off, gaze sharpening intently upon the scan in his hand. "What the hell?"
Curiosity duly piqued, Chase stands and walks around the table to House. "What's up?"
House passes off one of the scans to him without a word, still examining the others. Chase takes it and looks it over. It takes a few moments for him to orient himself – neurology isn't exactly his specialty, although he has the feeling that if he sticks out the diagnostics fellowship, there won't be many areas of medicine left that he won't be an expert in.
Tangentially, he thinks they could probably use a neurologist onboard sometimes, and makes a mental note to mention it to House at some point. Not that House ever takes his advice.
But the brain scan – it takes some looking, but then he sees it. "What the hell?" he echoes.
"You've noticed the damage," Tam says. His eyes are dark, and Chase can see the flicker of anger there, barely suppressed. He takes the scans back from them and begins mounting them on the lightbox for better examination. "Even with just a CAT scan, it's readily apparent, and with more advanced neuroimaging, the extent of the damage only becomes more appalling. Needless to say, the effects on the patient's mental health are – well, staggering. It took me months of treatment to get her even remotely stabilized, and she still has...episodes."
"You know," House remarks snidely, hobbling forward for a closer look, "it might help if we could see the patient."
"You've never needed to see a patient before," Chase mutters under his breath.
Tam shakes his head. "That's not possible, I'm afraid. At any rate, I'm not here for your much-vaunted diagnostic skills, Dr. House. I know what was done to her."
House snorts, gesturing to the scans. "Yeah, well, the whole lobotomy thing does tend to stand out."
"What I'm looking for is a way to reverse the damage," Tam goes on doggedly. "I've tried a number of variations on the standard cocktails of antipsychotic medications—"
"Right, and I'm sure the patient just loved being high as a kite twenty-four/seven—"
"She didn't," Tam says flatly. "She hated it, and it had a negligible effect on her psychological well-being anyway. I'm open to suggestions here, doctor." His voice softens. "Please."
"Spare me the sentimentality," House sneers. "If you're coming to me, you already know it's hopeless. I'm a diagnostician, not a psychoanalyst. Your little wunderkind doesn't need me. Oh, you did realize your patient was rather mentally enhanced before someone took a butcher's knife to her brain, right?"
"More than you can possibly conceive," Tam murmurs. There's something soft in his eyes that makes Chase wonder what exactly his relation to the patient is. And that's always a bad sign.
Chase clears his throat. "If you don't mind me asking, what branch of medicine do you specialize in, Dr. Tam?"
"I was a trauma surgeon," Tam says. Chase notices the slip – was, past tense – but doesn't remark upon it. "Not a neurologist, unfortunately, though I'm not entirely untrained in that area. I took a keen interest in neurology at med – medical school. My younger sister was what you might call a genius, and the workings of her mind always fascinated me." His lips twist into a wry smile. "I never expected my interest in that area to take such prominence in my life. Professionally, of course."
"Of course," House says snidely. "How convenient for you. But one thing confuses me. Why would a trauma surgeon be given a neurological case of this complexity, Dr. Tam?"
Tam shrugs. "It's a long story, and I'm not inclined to share it with you."
House eyes him intently. "You don't seem inclined to share very much at all, in fact, apart from these very unusual scans. I suspect you share rather a bit more with your lovely patient."
Tam's mouth tightens.
"Can't take the competition, huh?" House waggles his eyebrows. "Psychotics can be pretty kinky, I'll admit. Never know what might turn 'em on. My scarred leg, her scarred brain – it's like a match made in heaven. Or at least by someone with a really good imagination."
For a second, Chase thinks Tam might actually punch House. That would be interesting. "And you wonder why I'm not introducing her to you," Tam mutters instead.
House sighs. "So. Diagnosis: badly botched lobotomy for evil mastermind-like purposes. Result: psychosis. Treatment: not fucking much. So why come to me?" It's a good point. Interesting as the case might be, there's nothing for them to do here.
But Chase can see the way House is still glancing back at those scans, the strange, almost hungry gleam in his eyes.
"You have a reputation, Dr. House," Tam says. "I haven't been...in this area long, but already I've heard you're one of the finest minds in medicine. The damage to the patient's brain is right there in front of you. How can we set it right again? There's your puzzle. Isn't it one worth solving?"
"It's impossible," House replies flatly, deliberately turning his back on the lightbox. "You're wasting your time, and you know it. Stop wasting mine." And with that, he's gone, hobbling out of the office in search of someone new to torment or possibly lunch.
Tam looks neither surprised or angry, both reactions Chase would have expected. "He's not going to let it go that easily," Tam remarks, watching House's retreating form with some satisfaction. "Good. Well, Dr. Chase, I'm afraid I've taken up too much of your morning already. I'll show myself out."
"You knew," Chase says, realization dawning. "You knew all along we wouldn't be able to help."
"Of course," Tam replies. He carefully takes down the patient's scans, returning them to his briefcase. "The technology to repair the damage to the patient's brain doesn't exist yet. Even those who caused it don't have the means to cure it."
"Then why come here?" Chase demands. "Why go through all the trouble?"
There's an odd glint in Tam's eyes. "I got you thinking about it, didn't I? Medical progress is an amazing thing, Dr. Chase. All it takes is the hint of a possibility."
"It also takes time," Chase points out. "Generations, even."
Tam smiles and turns to leave. "Five hundred years will be good enough for me," he murmurs on his way out the door.
One scan of the patient's brain is left behind, stark against the white brightness of the lightbox. Chase takes it down and just holds it a moment, wondering.
continued here, or follow the fake cuts below
( v. the unquiet dead (doctor who) )
( vi. evidence of things not seen (west wing) )
( vii. detour (x-files) )
( epilogue: downloaded (battlestar galactica) )
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Date: 2008-10-28 05:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-10-28 05:22 pm (UTC)