steelartisan | (no subject)

(no subject)

Piotr comes back to Serenity after spending a few hours wandering New York.

He can't go charging in to free her. Not alone. And both Logan and Kurt are out of contact. He won't know who to trust. He doesn't know about bringing in others, because. Kitty might be making a point, she likes to make those. He was paying attention when she told him stories of her life at the University of Chicago. And he isn't sure he can face Scott right now. Not just yet. He might lose his temper because he didn't help her, they're family.

So, he wanders back to Serenity, and finds himself in the cargo bay again at the foot of the stairs. And isn't sure what to do from there. He has her box in his duffel bag over his shoulder but should give out her notes? She isn't dead. But.

He really isn't very good at this side of being a hero.

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Over River's shoulder, Simon's face goes very, very still.

Instead of the first question to come to mind -- do we know what the security's like? -- he asks: "Is there a plan yet?"

The corner of Piotr's mouth quirks up, and he almost smiles.

"I. I need to talk to her first." Wry, "She might be trying to make a point."

"Hundred points," River whispers to the floor. Her arms have wrapped around her torso, and her fingers twist tight against brown fabric.

"Every one makes you bleed."

"Make a point," Simon repeats, a little thinly.

"I have to say, Kitty never struck me as the sort to embrace passive resistance."

The slight bit of expression goes away.

"She might be trying to prove not all mutants will always break the laws that don't suit them. She always wanted to be a politician. I need to be sure."

"And figure out how to get her out that won't cause this Civil War to be even worse for all of us. It is not just," (me) , "us this effects."

Oh, that hurt to say. It shows.

River's eyes are closed.

Tears leak slowly down her cheeks; she's been crying long enough to be breathing through her mouth now.

"Can," she whispers, but it's hard to say whom she's addressing.

Simon breathes out, hard.

(He's still holding River, and almost absently rubbing her back in a gentle circle.)

"Is there a way to get her out legally?" he asks Piotr. "What rights does she have? Will there be a hearing?"

"...I don't know." He pauses, then, "She might not even be a considered a citizen right now."

He rubs at his eyes, takes a breath then two more, and starts going through his duffel again.

"I have to go back." A bundle of letters is dropped on the kitchen table. "Notes for your crew. She wrote them in case this happenned. Give them out, please? She wanted me to."

"You know what's happened. I will be back as soon as I can with whatever I can find." Decided, he starts for the door back to the cargo bay.

River flinches at the first sentence, and again at the thump of the letters.

She doesn't say a word.

Simon opens his mouth to call Piotr back. And then closes it again, thin and hard.

If Kitty's not considered a citizen anymore ... then she owes that government nothing. Nothing.

They'll wait to see what Piotr finds out. Wait to see what the situation really is. And then ... well, what happens then depends on what he brings back. There's no point in making plans ahead of your information. They'll wait.

And they'll see.

River stares at the empty doorway.

"Zhùyì," she says, very low, and for a moment she's motionless and intent. Poised, as if she might pull free of Simon's arm and follow Piotr in a swift focused run.

(My turn)

And then her face crumples again, and the impression is gone.

Simon's looking at the letters.

He can't make himself believe there's going to be a secret code hidden in any of them.

There's one with his name on it. One for Jayne, and one for Mal, and more.

Not one for River. That is, presumably, the piece of paper tucked into one ballet shoe.

River doesn't look at any of them. Her eyes are closed, and her face tipped upwards; tears slide down her already blotchy face, dripping onto her shirt and coat, and her breath heaves.

He picks up and unfolds the one with his name on it, moving automatically.

Two words.

Thank you.

The impulse to crumple the note in his fist passes quickly; he folds it up again instead, and carefully sets it down with the others.

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