a slightly different crossover
Nov. 8th, 2007 01:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
vaznettiA few memes ago, ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
cofax7 requested Bobby and River in a scene together. I had something else in mind, but then Mal came out to play as well and, well... you'll see the problem. Not that I need another SPN/FF crossover thankyouverymuch, and yes there could be more of this but not until I get Blessings finished. Which really, really is going to happen. Perhaps I should devote my New York writing time to that, rather than Yuletide.
Untitled snippet: Bobby, River, Mal
Something's rustling out in the yard, and it isn't the wind. A dog would tell him what, but he doesn't have a dog. He's too much of a damn sentimentalist to replace the last one. Bobby takes the shotgun down from the rack; he's going to get himself killed because he's too soft to get a new dog. There is is again, and again, an irregular tapping noise, metal on metal breaking the quiet dark. He turns off the kitchen light and waits for his eyes to adjust before pushing the door open and stepping through.
The house may look run down, but the door doesn't creak, and the yard may look a mess, but Bobby knows where every rusted frame, every pane of glass and spare part wrapped in tarp rests. He follows the noise and then circles around it, coming in from the outside edge of the yard, not a foot wrong despite the dark.
Slow as he's moving, it still takes him time to figure out what he's seeing: long limbs, dark hair, a mouth muttering under the noise of whatever she's building. A tower of grills, tubes and bits of pipe, one piece piled on another; a strong wind would tip it. No sense to it, nothing he can see.
She's still muttering when she lifts her head to stare at him, big eyes in a round face, small mouth suddenly clamping shut. Bobby knows damn well he's been standing stock still the last sixty seconds, and now she's looking right at him, no way he can lift the gun. "I wanted to make it fly," she says, "but it wouldn't come alive."
She looks solid -- looks human, too, which is enough reason not to shoot her -- even more so when she takes that step past her tower toward him and it comes crashing down around her feet. There's something a little too quick about the way she gets out of the way, and something much too human about the look on her face. "How'd you get in here?" he asks, more for something to say than because he thinks she'll point to a gap in the chain-link fence.
"A conundrum," she says. "I can't find my way out."
"It's a junkyard, miss," he says. "Just looks like a maze."
"Not junk," she says. "Everything has a place, a purpose." She crouches down and starts to pick up the pieces of her fallen tower, then looks up at him, her hands full of metal. "I lost my brother."
"In here?" he asks.
She shakes her head. "Out there."
His mind is telling him that there's something wrong here, that the girl's a danger; his gut is saying she's no danger to him. Bobby hasn't lived this long by ignoring either of them. Can't leave her out here, he tells himself; she'll be better off indoors where he can keep an eye on her. He'll be safer that way, too, can rule out a few possibilities for trouble. "And you want my help finding him?"
"You know where all the pieces belong," she says. "But we don't fit anywhere."
Ah, shit, Bobby thinks. "We?"
The sound of a bullet being chambered in the dark behind him would be enough to make him raise his hands, if he didn't have the goddamn gun. "We," a man says behind him, "would be my crew and myself. Not that we intend any harm, but we surely would appreciate your assistance in finding our way." There's an unfamiliar twang to the man's accent and something odd in his speech, and Bobby's not surprised to turn around to see a man in boots and breeches pointing what looks like an antique revolver at his head. Travelers out of time: well, with everything else that turns up in his lot, he's just surprised it hasn't happened sooner. The man's looking him over, too, standing easy among the wrecked cars. "You sure you got the right guy, River?" he asks. "He don't exactly look musical."
"The singing man," the girl says. "He fixes things."
"Bobby Singer," Bobby says.
The other man's eyes crinkle a little with amusement. "Well, Mr. Singer," he says, "if you wouldn't mind placing that shotgun on the ground -- nice and slow, like that -- remember what we said about guns, River -- good -- we could discuss coming to some kind of arrangement."
"What exactly did you have in mind?" Bobby asks as he stands back up.
"First thing is, that field out back of your house, nice and flat. We'd appreciate it if you'd let us land our ship there."
"Your... ship," Bobby says. A whole lot of things are starting to not make much sense, and there's something wrong about that gun, about the way this man doesn't seem worried by the machinery around him.
"Serenity," the man says. "And I'm her captain, Malcolm Reynolds." He holsters the revolver and picks some kind of radio off his belt; before Bobby can even think of going for the shotgun, two more strangers glide out of the dark, a big man and a dark-skinned woman. Caught in his own goddamned yard, Bobby thinks. Sam and Dean are never gonna let him live this down, if they ever hear of it. Then the man says, "Bring her down, Kaylee."
There's wind and light and a huge shape -- Bobby feels like his heart is in his throat and his stomach's down around his feet all at once. "Holy crap," he says, low and inadequate; Reynolds grins at him and says something he can't hear over the noise of it. An honest to god fucking spaceship. Sam and Dean really won't let him live this down, that's for sure.
end
I suspect that the other enountercofax7 had in mind could be worked into this universe without too much trouble.
cofax7 requested Bobby and River in a scene together. I had something else in mind, but then Mal came out to play as well and, well... you'll see the problem. Not that I need another SPN/FF crossover thankyouverymuch, and yes there could be more of this but not until I get Blessings finished. Which really, really is going to happen. Perhaps I should devote my New York writing time to that, rather than Yuletide.Untitled snippet: Bobby, River, Mal
Something's rustling out in the yard, and it isn't the wind. A dog would tell him what, but he doesn't have a dog. He's too much of a damn sentimentalist to replace the last one. Bobby takes the shotgun down from the rack; he's going to get himself killed because he's too soft to get a new dog. There is is again, and again, an irregular tapping noise, metal on metal breaking the quiet dark. He turns off the kitchen light and waits for his eyes to adjust before pushing the door open and stepping through.
The house may look run down, but the door doesn't creak, and the yard may look a mess, but Bobby knows where every rusted frame, every pane of glass and spare part wrapped in tarp rests. He follows the noise and then circles around it, coming in from the outside edge of the yard, not a foot wrong despite the dark.
Slow as he's moving, it still takes him time to figure out what he's seeing: long limbs, dark hair, a mouth muttering under the noise of whatever she's building. A tower of grills, tubes and bits of pipe, one piece piled on another; a strong wind would tip it. No sense to it, nothing he can see.
She's still muttering when she lifts her head to stare at him, big eyes in a round face, small mouth suddenly clamping shut. Bobby knows damn well he's been standing stock still the last sixty seconds, and now she's looking right at him, no way he can lift the gun. "I wanted to make it fly," she says, "but it wouldn't come alive."
She looks solid -- looks human, too, which is enough reason not to shoot her -- even more so when she takes that step past her tower toward him and it comes crashing down around her feet. There's something a little too quick about the way she gets out of the way, and something much too human about the look on her face. "How'd you get in here?" he asks, more for something to say than because he thinks she'll point to a gap in the chain-link fence.
"A conundrum," she says. "I can't find my way out."
"It's a junkyard, miss," he says. "Just looks like a maze."
"Not junk," she says. "Everything has a place, a purpose." She crouches down and starts to pick up the pieces of her fallen tower, then looks up at him, her hands full of metal. "I lost my brother."
"In here?" he asks.
She shakes her head. "Out there."
His mind is telling him that there's something wrong here, that the girl's a danger; his gut is saying she's no danger to him. Bobby hasn't lived this long by ignoring either of them. Can't leave her out here, he tells himself; she'll be better off indoors where he can keep an eye on her. He'll be safer that way, too, can rule out a few possibilities for trouble. "And you want my help finding him?"
"You know where all the pieces belong," she says. "But we don't fit anywhere."
Ah, shit, Bobby thinks. "We?"
The sound of a bullet being chambered in the dark behind him would be enough to make him raise his hands, if he didn't have the goddamn gun. "We," a man says behind him, "would be my crew and myself. Not that we intend any harm, but we surely would appreciate your assistance in finding our way." There's an unfamiliar twang to the man's accent and something odd in his speech, and Bobby's not surprised to turn around to see a man in boots and breeches pointing what looks like an antique revolver at his head. Travelers out of time: well, with everything else that turns up in his lot, he's just surprised it hasn't happened sooner. The man's looking him over, too, standing easy among the wrecked cars. "You sure you got the right guy, River?" he asks. "He don't exactly look musical."
"The singing man," the girl says. "He fixes things."
"Bobby Singer," Bobby says.
The other man's eyes crinkle a little with amusement. "Well, Mr. Singer," he says, "if you wouldn't mind placing that shotgun on the ground -- nice and slow, like that -- remember what we said about guns, River -- good -- we could discuss coming to some kind of arrangement."
"What exactly did you have in mind?" Bobby asks as he stands back up.
"First thing is, that field out back of your house, nice and flat. We'd appreciate it if you'd let us land our ship there."
"Your... ship," Bobby says. A whole lot of things are starting to not make much sense, and there's something wrong about that gun, about the way this man doesn't seem worried by the machinery around him.
"Serenity," the man says. "And I'm her captain, Malcolm Reynolds." He holsters the revolver and picks some kind of radio off his belt; before Bobby can even think of going for the shotgun, two more strangers glide out of the dark, a big man and a dark-skinned woman. Caught in his own goddamned yard, Bobby thinks. Sam and Dean are never gonna let him live this down, if they ever hear of it. Then the man says, "Bring her down, Kaylee."
There's wind and light and a huge shape -- Bobby feels like his heart is in his throat and his stomach's down around his feet all at once. "Holy crap," he says, low and inadequate; Reynolds grins at him and says something he can't hear over the noise of it. An honest to god fucking spaceship. Sam and Dean really won't let him live this down, that's for sure.
end
I suspect that the other enounter
cofax7 had in mind could be worked into this universe without too much trouble.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2007-11-08 05:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-11-08 06:32 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2007-11-08 05:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-11-08 06:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-11-08 06:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-11-08 06:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-11-08 06:44 pm (UTC)OMG I love this. Holy crap indeed. Oh, man, Bobby! And Mal! And River! This is so not what I expected, but I am so happy to have it nonetheless! WHEEEEEEEEEE!
It's just perfect. You can't con a con-man, but Bobby's only gonna know about the shit he knows about. HAH.
(I really need a Bobby icon. Well, Zoe will do for this.)
no subject
Date: 2007-11-08 06:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-11-08 07:01 pm (UTC)It isn't what I was planning, either, but Mal was fairly insistent, and this is much more fun than River being all lost and creepy.
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Date: 2007-11-08 06:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-11-08 07:01 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2007-11-08 09:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-11-09 12:50 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-11-08 10:42 pm (UTC)You make me miss them so much. I want my Firefly back. And, I want to see more of this--Bobby dealing with Mal and his crew, and especially Bobby dealing with somebody else's problem child again.
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Date: 2007-11-09 12:52 am (UTC)I get nostalgic for the show as well, which I guess is why I write it.
(BTW do you think you'll be able to meet us in New York this Sunday? You have my cellphone number, right?)
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Date: 2007-11-09 03:23 am (UTC)ETA: Yes, just looked still have your cell phone number.
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Date: 2007-11-12 12:00 am (UTC)More, please.
no subject
Date: 2007-11-13 08:47 pm (UTC)There are other things ahead of it in the queue, so I cannot guarantee anything. But possibly, there will be more.