AAAAAAA godblesstoyou,deardearV-iaP


When the story gets told later it always begins different. Kaylee says it begins when Wash died, leaving her with an empty bed and unfulfilled dreams. Simon thinks it was dusting off a crying child that fell and scrapped her knee one day when they were in the market of some little backwater. Mal doesn't say, because he knows better, but Zoe knows he thinks it's when she ended an argument between him and Kaylee by asking what would happen if it was her with child. He'd got real quiet and they just looked at each other......They were there to meet a man looking to move some roasted ore left over from the smelters that were prime material for gravel making and cement, though Jayne swore it was for remining silver that hadn't all oozed out and Mal says they were actually skimming off the ore and only calling it roasted, but..............................and just so was paying close attention to everyone else in bar while the music played hard and that was what it was. One man by the pool tables, singing along. And not just singing shy-like, but belting it out enough to hear him a little over the noise, head bobbing, foot tapping, and all the while studying the game he was playing. He didn't look no different than any of the rest, though maybe his face was a mite cleaner. Tall with short hair and a layer of dirt over well patched clothes, but it was the singing that struck Zoe.
For all his pretty face, he looked a bit like an overgrown kid singing like that, young and goofy.[/MORE]

Summary from "Bushwacked"

Summary: ALLIANCE COMMANDER: You fought with Captain Reynolds in the war?
ZOE: Fought with a lot of people in the war.
ALLIANCE COMMANDER: And your husband?
ZOE: Fight with him sometimes, too.



"Fair does not mean ‘everyone gets the same’. Fair means ‘everyone gets what they need'."



Zoe swears that Wash bruises if someone so much as looks at him funny. He has that kind of complexion, the kind she coveted when she was too young to have grown into her own skin: the kind suited to blond hair and blue eyes, that blanches and blushes, that does not tan but burns. It shows every mark and mar of his clumsy days—a scrape from working on the forward console hatch with Kaylee, a gash from an overeager landing, assorted cuts and bruises that he can’t even recall acquiring.

(“Oww, “ he whines whenever Zoe is required to bandage some hard-to-reach spot. “Ow, oooh, ya—careful! …And again—this time with feeling—ow!" Then, just when she’s starting to feel a mite bit guilty, he’ll give her a sly sideways glance: “Guess you’ll have to kiss me to make it all better.” Clumsy and a terrible patient. Zoe’s not sure how he survived this long.)
[MORE=lost and found
Title: Fair in Love and War]2ndary-author.livejournal.com/51078.html#cutid1


community.livejournal.com/hp_sas/10804.html

“I’ll leave,” Al heard himself saying, “I won’t crawl back here. Owl me whatever I owe you; I’ll pay Scazza—”

A chair flew in from the adjacent room. “Sit down.”

“You’ll burn it afterwards.”

“Correct.”


There had been strange looks, of course, whispers and pointing fingers. But no one had been so forthright about their disgust. Al remained on his feet.

“The chair will not thank you for your martyrdom.”

“No, really. I’ll stand.” The back of the chair was within reach and Al almost went for it. “Thank you. I mean, it’s all right. I know.”

“And what do you know?” Draco leaned back to look at him.

“Nothing.” Al sank into the seat; the question begged for an answer that he could never utter himself



Memories. Surely you recognise these?”

Blood rushed away from his brain. Al felt lightheaded, his skin cold; but he nodded.


continued to study the cracks in the glass beneath his feet, twirling his wand between his fingers like a baton.

“So this is what I’m asking in return for my services. Memories.”

The twirling stopped.

“Don’t look at me this way. Every visitor of Water makes the same payment, but—” he cast a silent spell on the spindle, which spun and tore the strands of memory away from the water screen; they screeched in a futile attempt to escape the draw of the glass cylinder, “—given your surname, it’d be unbecoming to offer you some special treatment … an award of bravery, if you will, for upholding the fine Potter tradition of ignoring the rules.”

What a longwinded way to get to the point. Al felt an emergent lift at the corner of his lips.

Draco resealed the ceiling. For a moment, water continued to fall like rain.

“Usually, I select the memory I wish to save. But, Mr Potter—”

“Al.”

“—Al, I’ll let you choose your own.” The offer was smooth as black silk, the veil unable to conceal the glint in the eyes beneath. “Including that memory, should you desire.”

The knot in Al’s chest loosened. Everyone wanted the same thing from him in the end, the thing that had defined him, had become him.

The Memory.




“You could very well be the next one lying there.” Draco nodded towards the waterfall and his eyes swept towards Al, then trailed from his face towards his abdomen. “Delinquent. Weak. Your parents will be so much happier without you.” He withdrew his wand, his final question replacing the void of his absence. “Who wants a whore for a child?”









Draco did not look disgusted. “Thought you’d be back only if let Scorpius in. I remember that. How’s my son?”

It made no sense—mistaken as his dad then. It had happened before; the flowers made it easy and for the flowers, Al could be anyone, anything. “Scazza’s fine.”





You know what?” Draco, too, smelled like flowers; his voice was smooth as nectar, his lips soft like petals. “This …” His fingers traced along Al’s nose, from bridge to tip, then to his mouth, his jaw; Al could see and feel every one of them. “This has been passed along to your son. To Al.”



Lavenders, their sight, their scent, their taste, had taken over the world, save for the little space Al occupied and drew his breaths from, where it was barren and mired with blood. Critters—Dark and invisible—were crawling beneath his skin. Al had bitten on himself, picked on his skin with his fingers to no avail; the tears in his skin had shown nothing but flesh and blood.







Lily stuck her tongue out, then her eyes lit. “So, how was dad?”

Al snickered and stuck out his palm; Lily took off her glasses and handed it over.

“I’ve said this many times before.” Al pushed up the spectacles and feigned an irritated expression. “Sure, pure-blood families have been richer than half-bloods and Muggleborns and they might have got some of their money from Dark activities, but unless we have proof, the Ministry cannot just take away their assets, which everyone knows is what this measure’s really all about.” He tore off the glasses and returned them to his sister. “There.”

Lily looked comically pensive. “Insightful, indeed.”

“Yeah, I know. He’s made better arguments when Mum wanted to try something new for dinner.”

“For good reasons.” Lily laughed. “Remember that fish thing? Blech. It was funny though; I’d never seen Dad turn so red. I almost wished she’d cooked more.”

“He swore the fish was swimming inside him for days.” Al joined in the laughter. “But wait.” He thought for a second. “About the debate. There’s something I forgot to mention. When the floor opened for discussion, Dad … you know him, when he loses it he can be rather—”

“Loud?” Her eyes widened with curiosity.

“Honest.










“You thought I wanted to see touching … as a tool of humiliation.”

He stretched his arms across the desk and examined their length, speaking again only when his eyes—and Al’s—had finally reached his hands.

“You see these hands?” Joy had departed; Draco’s fingers curled, grasping for the silver sprinkles cast by the light on the dark gloves. “They evaded my mother’s reach when she took her last breath; they’ve never touched my son or his mother. They haven’t even felt the flesh they’re made of for more than a decade.”

With one fluid motion, Draco reached upward and caught a light sphere in the air; silver wings soon sprouted from it and it took off from the black silk.

“No one is good enough, clean enough for them.”






“To answer your last question,” he said quietly, “I do not wish to touch you because if I do, there will come a time when I will not be able to stop, even if you want me to.”




The movement was awkward, graceless; his grip kept slipping with the layers of gauze in between, and his search for deep pleasure accomplished little but gathered the fabric between his fingers and his thighs. Looking more pained than pleasured,..............



Then, quiet sobs serrated the heavy, humid air.

Al did not know how long he had stood there, how long he had watched the lone figure coiled up behind the glass, lamenting a predicament, an unfulfilled desire with tears that nobody would see or hear.

The image was so foreign, yet so familiar—



You asked me whether I like your father; it’s irrelevant. I need him.”

“They’re not the same.”

“They can be, if the need runs deep in your blood—”

“Liking,” Al chewed his lower lip, “comes from here.”








But the silk and veil were reminders of Draco’s inaccessibility, and the almost-healed scar on his hip that Draco looked at everyday, of Al’s free will stolen from him in the past.

The choices of what to give, whom to give it to.

The choice of memories—what to remember, what to forget.

What they both needed, perhaps, was a reversal of fortune.








But the eyes never opened; the fanning came to an abrupt, resolute stop and the eyelids, almost blue with veins, squeezed themselves tight.


He could play Saviour, even if he had no longer believed …

It was in his blood.
.................................The glove fell onto the bedding as Al whispered, “Hold on to me.”

Hold on, because only then you’d know your salvation is real; more than a dream, a desire, an image.

Hold on, because salvation could drift away,....................





Perhaps, there was no such thing as a beautiful memory of sex.











It was Al’s father. One step after another, his worn boots carried him up the stairs towards the foyer of the auditorium. His head remained bowed, never for once turning to look the judges, to whom he should have excused himself before leaving, or his son, who—because of him, because of his legacy—had lived through the crime, the shame all over again.

No one stopped him; no one was able to. He was almost at the entrance when Al’s mum seemed to wake from a trance and stood. She looked at her son, then her husband and back to her son, evidently at a loss of what to do.

...................... The oak double door closed behind him.