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Written for serenitysummer: Wash.

Title: The Property of Making
Author: voleuse
Fandom: Firefly
Characters: Wash & Book
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Then the world is dim.
Notes: No spoilers



Wash sneaks out of bed, or tries to, at least.

Zoe murmurs into her pillow as the mattress shifts.

"Just going to get a snack," he whispers against her hair, and she smiles and goes back to sleep.

Rather than disturb her further, he forgoes putting shoes on, hastily drags a shirt over his head in order to make up for it.

The metal of the floor stings cold against his feet, and he practically skips through the corridors. He's glad they're planetside, and the ship almost empty, because this might be too ridiculous, even for him.

He's warmed enough to slow his pace by the time he reaches the mess, and he breathes a sigh of thanks to whoever, because Shepherd Book is standing at the counter, looking mighty bemused at being caught up this late. On the table in front of him, there's an array of spices and pots and pieces of paper. And a turnip.

"Preacher," Wash intones, as seriously as possible. His feet twitch.

"Wash." Book smiles, a slight, calming expression. "You're up late."

Wash treads to the counter, sets a kettle out to boil. "Guess I'm used to being up at night, flying this bird." He rummages in a drawer, finds a packet of dried apricots, stringy and sweet.

Book nods, gestures to the miscellany before him. "Kaylee called in earlier. She said she's found a good deal on a crate of turnips." He picks up the one on the table. "I've just been considering how to make them palatable."

"Good idea." Wash gnaws on a piece of apricot. Swallows a bit of it, revels at the chalky sweetness of it. "I never was fond of those, but it'd be nice to have something fresh."

The kettle whistles, and Wash pours two cups of tea before rinsing out the leaves. He slides one in front of Book and seats himself at the table.

Book murmurs thanks, takes a thoughtful gulp from his cup.

Wash wonders whether he should have said grace for the tea.

"Pepper," Book finally pronounces. "And onion, if we can find it."

Wash remembers the last time he tasted an onion, fresh, and his tongue tingles.

"That'd be a fine meal," Book says, and he scribbles something onto one of the scraps of paper.

"You learn how to cook in preaching school?" Wash asks. He takes another bite of apricot. It's sharp, after the tea.

Book gathers his papers together, stuffs them carefully inside a journal, before binding it closed with twine. He stands, returns the pots and spices to their respective places. He stows the turnip in the the cold box.

Wash's tea is lukewarm, now, and slightly bitter.

Book returns to his seat, sips his own tea without reaction. "I did some cooking at the monastery, yes," he replies.

Wash clears his throat, and when Book sets his cup down, Wash grabs it, rinses out both cups and puts them away. "I'll be getting back to Zoe, then," he says.

Book nods. "Have a good night."

Wash shifts on his feet, but he doesn't have anything else to say.

So he goes back to bed.


###

A/N: Title and summary adapted from Craig Raine's A Martian Sends a Postcard Home. Link courtesy of breathe_poetry.

Originally linked here. Linked on serenitysummer.

Comments

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voleuse
Aug. 29th, 2005 05:44 pm (UTC)
Thank you so much! I'm thrilled you liked it.
( 1 comment — Leave a comment )

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