flybywash | (no subject)

(no subject)

They call it the ghost months.

It used to keep time with the moon of Earth-That-Was, and it used to happen every year. They'd tell stories of the dead walking the earth: ancestors returned to visit their families, ghosts sent to snatch the living back through the gates of Hell. They'd burn offerings, perform plays; they'd avoid weddings, water, and open spaces after dark.

They still tell the stories, but only once every seven years now, and for two months straight instead of the ancient tradition of one.

On Sihnon, fires burn bright on the streetcorners, kept in tightly tamped containers with narrow grates along the top. The only paper money this side of the system will ever see (available in packets from the vendor across the street, ten fake bills for one credit) gets tossed inside by passerby, a tourist novelty, a casual afterthought.

Beaumonde's known for its giant theater festival that spans the entire two months, one new play every day. Traditionally, only the best new drama debuts here. A work based on Sing Hua's three-act novels is slated to take center stage at the exact midpoint of this decade's festival, a time slot accompanied by an elaborate all-day buffet and one that's fiercely contested over for years leading up to it. Tickets have been sold out for well over a year and a half.

Nobody living in the Bellerophon Estates will claim to believe the myths, but travel over the vast ocean slows come nightfall anyway. Some even walk to the edge of their property, lean over to look down at the waters, and silently drop paper boats over the side before retreating indoors.

On Serenity, they hold a moment of silence, and nobody finishes their entire meal or cleans up the dishes after dinner.

In Wash and Zoe's bunk, Wash falls asleep within minutes of his head hitting the pillow.

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"There's no easy way to say this, so I'll just say it."

A breath.

"You have to go back."

Wash stops breathing.

He stares, face utterly bloodless.

And --

(made a bargain too, did you, son?)

And --

(how long'd he been around? a year and a half? little more?)

And he can't do anything except shake his head, dumbly, over and over and over.

"No." It's hoarse; hardly audible.

"Not forever. Not even for very long. But you have to go back."

He doesn't get it, does he?

He's one of the lucky ones.

Look what happened to Orpheus.

"Please -- "

He makes a sudden, convulsive movement with his hand, as if he's about to grab Zoe's. It stops midway through, tightening on the sheet instead.

About the most Wash knows of Orpheus is that it comes from something Greek, and it's a speck of a moon on the opposite end of the system. He wouldn't call himself lucky right now.

"I can't," he begs. The word breaks apart. "Please. I-I-I've got a kid now, I can't do this to them again."

She looks at him, suddenly serious.

"You can. Look. First off, it's not forever. Second, you're going to have some time to tell them, and third? Third, kiddo, you don't have a choice."

At the last, it almost looks like Wash is going to keep arguing, and with far more venom this time. She let him have a choice the first time. That was what this whole thing was about, wasn't it?

But when he looks up at her, right into those eyes, the flash of anger dims as fast as it came. He slumps a bit, turning his face away.

"How long?"

She looks up, sighs a little.

"Three months? Ish."

She's a little irked. This is so much more than most people get.

He nods, still not looking at her. There's a deep, shaky breath, and he swipes his palm over his eyes again.

"So why now?" he asks, glancing back. "With the telling me about this part of it."

"There's always a price, Wash. I thought you knew that."

"What, the being crippled for life wasn't en -- "

Wash forcibly, visibly stops himself and shuts his eyes.

"Duìbùqĭ. I didn't mean that."

She just eyes him.

"Don't lie."

She is what she is.

"Everyone gets the same thing, Wash. A lifetime. I've given you more. Don't make me rethink my decision."

"I know. I know, I'm sorry," he says again, quiet.

Resigned.

He tightens his hands in the sheets again, and opens his eyes -- not to look at her, but to look at Zoe.

It's a few seconds before he can ask, "How long do I have to tell them?"

"It's alright."

She looks down, at her hands.

"Four days."

Ninety-six hours. That's it.

It's enough, but --

Three months, after that.

Gently, so as not to wake her just yet, Wash finds Zoe's hand and loosely closes his around it.

"Okay."

"There are worse things, kiddo. It ain't so bad."

She ruffles his hair.

"I think you should get laid. A lot."

There's a smile, and--

(the sound of her wings)

--she's gone.

Wash laughs a little, thickly, without much humor.

He doesn't take his eyes off of Zoe, though it becomes harder to catch his breath when he hears the rush of air, that steady rustling pulse, before it all lapses back into silence.

Just him and his wife. His hand tightens.

"Zoe."

Wash nudges her, once, and then suddenly begins shaking her, much harder than he needs to for somebody who spent years in the military.

"Zoe, wake up -- "

Zoe shifts and mutters something unintelligble, the gist of which is fairly clearly go away I'm ASLEEP.

When the shaking doesn't stop, she rolls from her side to her back, opening her eyes just enough to squint up at him.

"Wash? Shenme?"

"Something's happened."

His voice is blurred; it's starting to hurt to talk. His throat's clenched up so tight that even swallowing isn't that great an option.

"Death w-was." He tries to swallow anyway. "Death was just here."

...If Wash was looking to get Zoe as awake as possible as quickly as possible, he's succeeded admirably.

She jerks up into a sitting position, staring at him.

"What?"

"She was just here, and she -- "

He twists a hand into his hair, breathing shakily, eyes bright.

"I have to go. I-it's payment, she's taking me back, it's only for three months but I don't get a choice and she said she's gonna be back in four days to do it -- "

It's creeping dangerously close to a sob by now.

He doesn't get any farther than she's taking me back before Zoe shakes her head, slowly at first, as if her body's still catching up with her mind, and then faster, more vehemently. It's as if she hasn't even heard the part about it being temporary. Maybe she hasn't.

"No."

That's all, at first, just one syllable of almost toneless denial. Then, fear and the beginnings of anger creeping in,

"No, she can't--"

Later on, it will occur to her that she can't is, if not a flat-out dangerous thing to say in reference to an Endless, at least a foolish one. Right now, if it did occur to her, she wouldn't care. The thought won't be stopped.

"She can't let you come back and then take you again."

"She can do whatever she damn well wants." Head in both hands now, and still clutching at his hair; he can't see past the edges of his palms. "She's Death."

Helpless, he drops both hands with a defeated flourish and exhales, saying brokenly, "It's just extra time. All of this. That's all it is."

Zoe just shakes her head again, her mouth set in a stubborn line, because right now, that's better than losing it the way she will if she doesn't clench her jaw and fist her hands in the covers.

"What if there's a way out of this? We can talk t' someone--there's gotta be something--"

Part of her's clinging to the fact that there was a way out of it, the first time.

Part of her's remembering that someone close to them had to pay a heavy price for that.

At the moment, most of her doesn't care.

"Like what? Get Raven to dive back down there again?" He gulps. "It's only -- "

Blindly, he fumbles for her hand again.

"It's temporary." And as much for his reassurance as hers, to attempt some kind of anchor, he repeats it: "It ain't permanent. Three months, that's it."

Three months.

Naomi'll be half a year old.

Wash bites down on his lower lip, hard.

Zoe lets out a brief, humorless laugh, and that's a mistake, because she can't get her face back into its stoic mask afterward.

"Oh, sure. Just three months. That's nothin'."

Her voice cracks on the last word, and her hand closes over his, tightening convulsively.