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Fic: Advances in Thermodynamics (1/6)
I think I might officially be going crazy. This is what I did at work on Friday; I have just been lazy about getting the Chinese translations and fixing up the formatting.
Title: Advances in Thermodynamics (1/6)
Fandom: Firefly/Iron Man (movie)
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Tony Stark/Kaylee Frye
Necessary explanation: I asked for prompts, last week, and![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
agonistes told me to write Tony/Kaylee. I said 'MWAHAHA' at the time and happily started writing in things designed to make Sweeney twitch, but I think that she officially gets the last laugh, because this is eating my brain alive, and, God help me, there are more parts forthcoming.
Kaylee Frye shields her eyes with her hand as the small transport sets down. The thrust kicks up fierce winds and pelts gravel at her, but her smile remains undimmed; the only concession she makes is closing her mouth. She’s never liked the feel of grit under her tongue. Her hair’s already pulled back; she’s wearing patched coveralls over an old blue shirt. Her face and hands can’t get much dirtier than they already are, she figures, and she pulls her goggles down over her eyes and stays put.
It’s a real beauty of a ship; a Korai-class freighter, if Kaylee don’t miss her guess. She’s never seen one up close and personal; she’s not sure one’s ever been seen in Jefferson. It’s a real rich ship, the kind of baby you hear about people having in the Core, all sleek and shiny. This one’s banged up, but Kaylee can see the clean lines, and she can hear the purr of the one working engine. The other coughs and sputters, makes awful sounds like a dying cat, and Kaylee’s impressed by both the ship and its pilot as it settles down smoothly. There’s a thin line of smoke rising from the coughing engine; she picks up the canister of flame retardant foam waiting at her feet, and she scrambles around the side of the ship.
When she looks up from spraying the hell out of those sparks, the ship’s ramp has lowered. Tucking the canister under her arm and letting the hose trail behind her through the dust like some sort of following pet, Kaylee steps around the ship.
The big man who walks down isn’t quite what she expected; his clothes are real fine, but he doesn’t look comfortable in them. His shoulders are too broad for his vest, his neck too thick. He’s looking around.
Beaming, Kaylee steps up. “Wèi!” she says. “Welcome to Three Hills.”
The square-jawed man glances at her, giving her a nod, and he continues to survey the tiny spaceport. Undaunted, Kaylee opens her mouth to try again – and then another man saunters out of the ship. He’s the sort of fella she pictured on a Korai. He’s not that much taller than her, clean-shaven, with dark hair that Kaylee immediately wants to nudge out of his eyes. He’s dressed all slick. Dust wouldn’t settle on this guy the second it took a look at him, Kaylee figures; it’d run screaming.
“Good God,” he says, looking at the tiny terminal, and even his voice is yōumĕi, with the clipped pronunciation of somebody from Coreward. “How quaint.”
“Sir,” grunts the first man, and he inclines his head toward Kaylee.
Mr. Yōumĕi looks down, sees her, says something to the bodyguard she can’t hear, and then he jogs down the ramp. “Hi there,” he says, and now that he’s coming closer and turning a disarming smirk on Kaylee, he looks awful familiar. “You the welcoming committee?”
“Somethin’ like that,” chirps Kaylee, and she catches a brief flash of surprise across his face when he hears her voice. She suddenly wishes she wasn’t wearing her daddy’s coveralls. He extends a hand; she shifts the canister to her other arm and reaches out. Her handshake is firm, her hand small and callused and lined with dirt, machine oil under her fingernails. “Welcome to Jefferson.”
“Xièxie nĭ,” he says, and she can’t help but notice that for somebody looks like a shēn shì, he’s got rough, strong hands. “Listen, you got a hospital around here? My pilot’s injured.”
“Nearest hospital’s in McGovern,” says Kaylee. “I can wave Doc Light; he can be here in a half hour, if he ain’t out deliverin’ that calf for the Beaufords.” She looks up at him, all wide-eyed concern. “Your pilot ain’t hurt bad, is he?”
He half-smiles. “Oh, I think he’ll live. Would you do me a favor? Tell the good doctor that I’ll make it well worth his while if he can get here in fifteen minutes, calf or no calf.”
She was right. There’s somethin’ real slick about this guy; that request was a hell of a lot more charming than it had any right to be. “Sure,” says Kaylee. “I can do that. Hold here for a half a second, okay? I can go put in that wave.”
“Certainly,” says Mr. Yōumĕi, and Kaylee turns away to head for the terminal.
Doc Light ain’t happy to be pulled away from the calving; at least, not til Kaylee relays the stranger’s offer. With the doc’s agreement ringing in her ears, Kaylee grabs a beat-up datapad off the desk in the office and steps back out into the shimmering heat.
The bodyguard’s still standing right where she left him. Mr. Yōumĕi’s sitting on the ramp beside a dark-skinned man who’s got his feet pulled up and his forearms resting on his knees, his hands heavily bandaged.
Kaylee wonders if everybody from the Core is shuài.
The two men are talking, Mr. Yōumĕi definitely the louder of the two. As Kaylee gets closer, she sees that there’s a thin trail of dried blood running down the pilot’s face. She slows, hesitantly. “Doc’s on his way,” she says, and both men look up at her. “Oughta be here in ten minutes. I got some forms need fillin’ out, but... hell, they can wait.”
“This is a small town, isn’t it?” says Mr. Yōumĕi, holding out a hand. Kaylee hesitates again, then gives him the datapad. “You’re the shipping agent, too?”
Kaylee’s smile is dimmer; genuine but tinged with concern. “It’s real quiet around here on a Sunday, outside of hayin’ season. It’s just me, an’ Nels up in the tower.” She looks at the pilot, trying to catch his eye. “Hey, you okay?”
He looks up, startled. Mr. Yōumĕi’s eyes don’t rise from the datapad. “Lady’s talking to you, Rhodey.”
The pilot ignores him. “Yeah. I’m good,” he says, sounding part resigned, part rueful, and not at all like he’s from Osiris or Ariel or Bernadette. “The controls got a little hot coming down.” He holds up his hands to illustrate, then lowers them. “Thanks, though.”
“ ‘The aforementioned manifest form 37-AJ must be contingent on the parameters of the blah blah blah,’” Mr. Yōumĕi reads off the datapad. “Is this supposed to mean something?”
“A tāmāde genius and you can’t fill out a shipping manifest,” says Rhodey, looking over his shoulder. “I don’t know why anyone lets you out of the house, man. It’s asking you to certify that the cargo manifest matches what we’re got on board.”
Mr. Yōumĕi pulls the datapad to his chest, away from the pilot. “I knew that,” he says. He looks right at Kaylee. “My pilot, he’s a backseat form-filler. It’s terrible; a very sad condition.”
“How many times do I gotta tell you, I’m a pilot, not your pilot. I don’t work for you.” Rhodey points at the datapad with an aggravated, bandaged finger. “And the answer to number five isn’t 1500.”
Mr. Yōumĕi gets up. “Hogan, don’t let him move,” he says, stepping down from the ramp. “He’s in shock.”
“Man, I am not in shock,” says Rhodey, but Mr. Yōumĕi is already a couple meters away.
Not doing a good job of hiding her mischievous, fascinated smile, Kaylee tosses an apologetic look at the pilot and the bodyguard, and she follows the main attraction. “She’s a real pretty ship,” she says, and she’s beaming, her eyes lingering over the transport and drinking in every last bit of her.
“There’s one way to put it,” says Mr. Yōumĕi. “She’s definitely that.”
Kaylee’s eyes dart to him and her smile slips, just a bit, at the condescending tone. “Listen, you need to put in any more waves?”
“Just a mechanic,” he says.
“Already done.”
He glances up from the datapad. “You are efficient, aren’t you?”
She smiles, wiping her hands on the thighs of her coveralls and pushing her goggles up her forehead. “My daddy says I got an organized head up on my shoulders, but I just like things to make sense.”
“Well, Miss Organized Head,” says Mr. Yōumĕi, “why don’t you and your shoulders try making sense of this mess?” He thumbs at the datapad.
Kaylee grins, looking at it. “Oh, you just check that box, the one right there, then skip the rest and sign down the bottom. It’s pretty easy, once you get the swing of it.” She points. “The first one’s your name, the second’s the ship registration, third’s the port you come from, fourth’s how long you mean to stay on Three Hills, and the fifth definitely ain’t 1500.”
His stylus stills. One side of his mouth curves upward before he looks up. “Is that so?” he asks. “Care to enlighten me on what the answer definitely is, then?”
“I can’t rightly say, not havin’ seen the inside of your ship,” says Kaylee cheerfully, “but the question’s askin’ how many passengers you got.”
“The exterior’s deceptive; it's a new model,” he says absently, and he jots a note on the form.
She sets an unimpressed hand on her hip. “You can’t rightly expect me to believe you can fit 1500 people on the inside of a Korai-class freighter with twin Maddox 60 engines already takin’ up all that space.”
His eyebrows go up, too. “No,” he says, studying her, and Kaylee tries real hard not to turn pink, trapped by those dark eyes. “Apparently, I can’t.” Then his eyes flick past her. “Aha,” he says, signing his name. “It looks like you may not be the only welcoming party after all.”
Kaylee looks over her shoulder. Doc Light’s hurrying toward them, medical bag in hand, and he’s got Nels from the tower, the sheriff, Mr. Swope the councilman, and the mayor with him. She stares at them, then at Mr. Yōumĕi.
He dates the form with a flourish. “Duty calls,” he says with forced cheer, and he hands her the datapad as he steps past.
“Nĭ hăo, sir,” Kaylee hears the mayor say. “It’s an honor for Jefferson to be hostin’ you.”
“Thank you,” says the stranger, with that snake-charming smile of his, and he shakes the mayor’s hand. “The fine welcome is very much appreciated. Now, gentlemen, if we could adjourn in this direction? If you’re who I think you are, Colonel Rhodes could do with the attention.”
Tī wŏ de pìgu! Kaylee thinks, half-aware that her mouth is hanging open. Colonel?
The crowd of men step past her, already laughing at something the offworlder has said.
She looks down at the shipping manifest in her hand.
Kaylee's fingers fly to her mouth.
Passing, Tony Stark winks at her.
Chinese translations [from here]:
Wèi! – Hey! [Standard greeting/exclamation]
Yōumĕi – Elegant
Xièxie nĭ – Thank you
Shēn shì – Gentleman
Shuài – Cute; handsome
Tāmāde – Fucking
Nĭ hăo – Hello [formal]
Tī wŏ de pìgu! – Kick me in the ass!
Part 2
Title: Advances in Thermodynamics (1/6)
Fandom: Firefly/Iron Man (movie)
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Tony Stark/Kaylee Frye
Necessary explanation: I asked for prompts, last week, and
agonistes told me to write Tony/Kaylee. I said 'MWAHAHA' at the time and happily started writing in things designed to make Sweeney twitch, but I think that she officially gets the last laugh, because this is eating my brain alive, and, God help me, there are more parts forthcoming.Kaylee Frye shields her eyes with her hand as the small transport sets down. The thrust kicks up fierce winds and pelts gravel at her, but her smile remains undimmed; the only concession she makes is closing her mouth. She’s never liked the feel of grit under her tongue. Her hair’s already pulled back; she’s wearing patched coveralls over an old blue shirt. Her face and hands can’t get much dirtier than they already are, she figures, and she pulls her goggles down over her eyes and stays put.
It’s a real beauty of a ship; a Korai-class freighter, if Kaylee don’t miss her guess. She’s never seen one up close and personal; she’s not sure one’s ever been seen in Jefferson. It’s a real rich ship, the kind of baby you hear about people having in the Core, all sleek and shiny. This one’s banged up, but Kaylee can see the clean lines, and she can hear the purr of the one working engine. The other coughs and sputters, makes awful sounds like a dying cat, and Kaylee’s impressed by both the ship and its pilot as it settles down smoothly. There’s a thin line of smoke rising from the coughing engine; she picks up the canister of flame retardant foam waiting at her feet, and she scrambles around the side of the ship.
When she looks up from spraying the hell out of those sparks, the ship’s ramp has lowered. Tucking the canister under her arm and letting the hose trail behind her through the dust like some sort of following pet, Kaylee steps around the ship.
The big man who walks down isn’t quite what she expected; his clothes are real fine, but he doesn’t look comfortable in them. His shoulders are too broad for his vest, his neck too thick. He’s looking around.
Beaming, Kaylee steps up. “Wèi!” she says. “Welcome to Three Hills.”
The square-jawed man glances at her, giving her a nod, and he continues to survey the tiny spaceport. Undaunted, Kaylee opens her mouth to try again – and then another man saunters out of the ship. He’s the sort of fella she pictured on a Korai. He’s not that much taller than her, clean-shaven, with dark hair that Kaylee immediately wants to nudge out of his eyes. He’s dressed all slick. Dust wouldn’t settle on this guy the second it took a look at him, Kaylee figures; it’d run screaming.
“Good God,” he says, looking at the tiny terminal, and even his voice is yōumĕi, with the clipped pronunciation of somebody from Coreward. “How quaint.”
“Sir,” grunts the first man, and he inclines his head toward Kaylee.
Mr. Yōumĕi looks down, sees her, says something to the bodyguard she can’t hear, and then he jogs down the ramp. “Hi there,” he says, and now that he’s coming closer and turning a disarming smirk on Kaylee, he looks awful familiar. “You the welcoming committee?”
“Somethin’ like that,” chirps Kaylee, and she catches a brief flash of surprise across his face when he hears her voice. She suddenly wishes she wasn’t wearing her daddy’s coveralls. He extends a hand; she shifts the canister to her other arm and reaches out. Her handshake is firm, her hand small and callused and lined with dirt, machine oil under her fingernails. “Welcome to Jefferson.”
“Xièxie nĭ,” he says, and she can’t help but notice that for somebody looks like a shēn shì, he’s got rough, strong hands. “Listen, you got a hospital around here? My pilot’s injured.”
“Nearest hospital’s in McGovern,” says Kaylee. “I can wave Doc Light; he can be here in a half hour, if he ain’t out deliverin’ that calf for the Beaufords.” She looks up at him, all wide-eyed concern. “Your pilot ain’t hurt bad, is he?”
He half-smiles. “Oh, I think he’ll live. Would you do me a favor? Tell the good doctor that I’ll make it well worth his while if he can get here in fifteen minutes, calf or no calf.”
She was right. There’s somethin’ real slick about this guy; that request was a hell of a lot more charming than it had any right to be. “Sure,” says Kaylee. “I can do that. Hold here for a half a second, okay? I can go put in that wave.”
“Certainly,” says Mr. Yōumĕi, and Kaylee turns away to head for the terminal.
Doc Light ain’t happy to be pulled away from the calving; at least, not til Kaylee relays the stranger’s offer. With the doc’s agreement ringing in her ears, Kaylee grabs a beat-up datapad off the desk in the office and steps back out into the shimmering heat.
The bodyguard’s still standing right where she left him. Mr. Yōumĕi’s sitting on the ramp beside a dark-skinned man who’s got his feet pulled up and his forearms resting on his knees, his hands heavily bandaged.
Kaylee wonders if everybody from the Core is shuài.
The two men are talking, Mr. Yōumĕi definitely the louder of the two. As Kaylee gets closer, she sees that there’s a thin trail of dried blood running down the pilot’s face. She slows, hesitantly. “Doc’s on his way,” she says, and both men look up at her. “Oughta be here in ten minutes. I got some forms need fillin’ out, but... hell, they can wait.”
“This is a small town, isn’t it?” says Mr. Yōumĕi, holding out a hand. Kaylee hesitates again, then gives him the datapad. “You’re the shipping agent, too?”
Kaylee’s smile is dimmer; genuine but tinged with concern. “It’s real quiet around here on a Sunday, outside of hayin’ season. It’s just me, an’ Nels up in the tower.” She looks at the pilot, trying to catch his eye. “Hey, you okay?”
He looks up, startled. Mr. Yōumĕi’s eyes don’t rise from the datapad. “Lady’s talking to you, Rhodey.”
The pilot ignores him. “Yeah. I’m good,” he says, sounding part resigned, part rueful, and not at all like he’s from Osiris or Ariel or Bernadette. “The controls got a little hot coming down.” He holds up his hands to illustrate, then lowers them. “Thanks, though.”
“ ‘The aforementioned manifest form 37-AJ must be contingent on the parameters of the blah blah blah,’” Mr. Yōumĕi reads off the datapad. “Is this supposed to mean something?”
“A tāmāde genius and you can’t fill out a shipping manifest,” says Rhodey, looking over his shoulder. “I don’t know why anyone lets you out of the house, man. It’s asking you to certify that the cargo manifest matches what we’re got on board.”
Mr. Yōumĕi pulls the datapad to his chest, away from the pilot. “I knew that,” he says. He looks right at Kaylee. “My pilot, he’s a backseat form-filler. It’s terrible; a very sad condition.”
“How many times do I gotta tell you, I’m a pilot, not your pilot. I don’t work for you.” Rhodey points at the datapad with an aggravated, bandaged finger. “And the answer to number five isn’t 1500.”
Mr. Yōumĕi gets up. “Hogan, don’t let him move,” he says, stepping down from the ramp. “He’s in shock.”
“Man, I am not in shock,” says Rhodey, but Mr. Yōumĕi is already a couple meters away.
Not doing a good job of hiding her mischievous, fascinated smile, Kaylee tosses an apologetic look at the pilot and the bodyguard, and she follows the main attraction. “She’s a real pretty ship,” she says, and she’s beaming, her eyes lingering over the transport and drinking in every last bit of her.
“There’s one way to put it,” says Mr. Yōumĕi. “She’s definitely that.”
Kaylee’s eyes dart to him and her smile slips, just a bit, at the condescending tone. “Listen, you need to put in any more waves?”
“Just a mechanic,” he says.
“Already done.”
He glances up from the datapad. “You are efficient, aren’t you?”
She smiles, wiping her hands on the thighs of her coveralls and pushing her goggles up her forehead. “My daddy says I got an organized head up on my shoulders, but I just like things to make sense.”
“Well, Miss Organized Head,” says Mr. Yōumĕi, “why don’t you and your shoulders try making sense of this mess?” He thumbs at the datapad.
Kaylee grins, looking at it. “Oh, you just check that box, the one right there, then skip the rest and sign down the bottom. It’s pretty easy, once you get the swing of it.” She points. “The first one’s your name, the second’s the ship registration, third’s the port you come from, fourth’s how long you mean to stay on Three Hills, and the fifth definitely ain’t 1500.”
His stylus stills. One side of his mouth curves upward before he looks up. “Is that so?” he asks. “Care to enlighten me on what the answer definitely is, then?”
“I can’t rightly say, not havin’ seen the inside of your ship,” says Kaylee cheerfully, “but the question’s askin’ how many passengers you got.”
“The exterior’s deceptive; it's a new model,” he says absently, and he jots a note on the form.
She sets an unimpressed hand on her hip. “You can’t rightly expect me to believe you can fit 1500 people on the inside of a Korai-class freighter with twin Maddox 60 engines already takin’ up all that space.”
His eyebrows go up, too. “No,” he says, studying her, and Kaylee tries real hard not to turn pink, trapped by those dark eyes. “Apparently, I can’t.” Then his eyes flick past her. “Aha,” he says, signing his name. “It looks like you may not be the only welcoming party after all.”
Kaylee looks over her shoulder. Doc Light’s hurrying toward them, medical bag in hand, and he’s got Nels from the tower, the sheriff, Mr. Swope the councilman, and the mayor with him. She stares at them, then at Mr. Yōumĕi.
He dates the form with a flourish. “Duty calls,” he says with forced cheer, and he hands her the datapad as he steps past.
“Nĭ hăo, sir,” Kaylee hears the mayor say. “It’s an honor for Jefferson to be hostin’ you.”
“Thank you,” says the stranger, with that snake-charming smile of his, and he shakes the mayor’s hand. “The fine welcome is very much appreciated. Now, gentlemen, if we could adjourn in this direction? If you’re who I think you are, Colonel Rhodes could do with the attention.”
Tī wŏ de pìgu! Kaylee thinks, half-aware that her mouth is hanging open. Colonel?
The crowd of men step past her, already laughing at something the offworlder has said.
She looks down at the shipping manifest in her hand.
NAME: ANTHONY STARK
Kaylee's fingers fly to her mouth.
Passing, Tony Stark winks at her.
Chinese translations [from here]:
Wèi! – Hey! [Standard greeting/exclamation]
Yōumĕi – Elegant
Xièxie nĭ – Thank you
Shēn shì – Gentleman
Shuài – Cute; handsome
Tāmāde – Fucking
Nĭ hăo – Hello [formal]
Tī wŏ de pìgu! – Kick me in the ass!
Part 2