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F: Soldiers and Cowards
Fandom: Firefly
Pairing: None
Warnings: Angst, violence
Rating: PG
Summary: Tracey's all alone now. For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
over_look.
Tracey tries not to focus on the blood that's by now pretty much all over him. He tries to ignore the scrape of gravel under his body as he wriggles forward. He also tries to ignore the horrible feeling of exposure, the feeling that somebody's watching him, laughing at his attempts. Once upon a time, Zoe and Mal would've been on either side, making him feel safe, protectin' him at the potential cost of their own lives and the rest of their little squad behind --
But they've been sent off somewhere else, leaving him behind. Or, well, not leaving him behind, because since then he's changed planets too. They're out on Hera -- a pretty planet before the war, by all accounts, though by now Tracey is pretty gorramn sure that every planet touched by the war looks the same. He could close his eyes and be back on the planet where Zoe Alleyne last grinned at him and said 'be careful, little one'.
Careful. Slowly, achingly careful. His belly scraping over the gravel. If Mal were here, he'd've gotten sick of the slow crawl forward by now. Made some kind of diversion, whooping and loving it even when they were shootin' at him. Zoe would've --
That's another thing he shouldn't really think of. He's alone now, and all there is the gravel, and the fact that he hasn't had a shave in five days and a proper wash in nine. There's the smell of gunpowder and dying people and dead people decaying. All of it should be ignored in favour of the long crawl forward. Followin' orders.
'You follow my orders right, private, and you may yet survive the war,' Mal had once said, and though they weren't Mal's orders, perhaps the same would work.
Trust to instinct. Trust to the sergeant. Trust --
A soft scrape of a boot on gravel -- not one of his own sounds, and Tracey surprises himself with his instincts now, rolling over onto his back just before the soldier behind him stabs a knife down into him. A short sharp tussle, and Tracey has closed his eyes and fights purely to get the person off, and then all he can hear is his own panting and the warm soak of the man's blood into his clothes. More blood.
"You killed him," a voice observes, above him, and Tracey doesn't open his eyes. For a moment, he can pretend it's Mal or Zoe stood over him, startled, can pretend that he's proved himself or something, that they're proud of him. That was all he'd wanted, for a longer time than he'd really care to admit. But he's on his own now.
He opens his eyes, but doesn't look at the man standing over him. "Yes."
"Gutsy, aren't you?"
He wants to say no. Instead he rolls to his feet, aware of the gun tracking his movement, and picks himself, brushing away dirt and gravel before realising that there's no chance he'll do any good that way. "Which side are you on?"
"Freelance. You were makin' a real mess of yourself there, y'know."
And there he'd thought he was doing well. Tracey ran a hand through his hair, dislodging grit and finding dried blood in it from a headwound he didn't know he had that starts to hurt only when his fingers brush it, and then continues in a throbbing ache.
"You tryin' to get to a camp or something?"
Tracey shrugs slightly, looking the stranger over briefly. He looks clean, with a bandage wrapped round his head and upper arm. Well cared for.
Might be a betrayal of everythin' his old sergeant was, but his new sergeant ain't Mal and, well -- 'look after yourself, private', he'd said. Look after yourself. So Tracey straightens and stretches to ease the kinks out of his spine. "Would you happen to have place for an Independent turned freelance?"
The man seems amused. "You're not that great a soldier, boy. Best you sit out the war. We'll have a place for you. You comin'?"
Tracey turns to glance over his shoulder. The rest of his group left him behind long ago, and he think he can hear the sound of their gunfire. Their dying screams. He's stood up in a desolation of what used to be a city. People's homes. Maybe once upon a time a group of kids played ball where he's standin' now. Now there's nothing, and there's a prickle in his back that makes him feel like he's being watched. Exposed.
"Yeah," he mutters, and kicks a bit of the gravel.
"Don't feel ashamed, kid," the man says, leading him away across the gravel, secure in the knowledge that he knew what he was doing. "Somewhere along the line someone taught you well, but you just aren't soldier material. Best you let us shelter you."
Tracey has always thought of it as an advantage that people will take care of him. Now he thinks about it, he realises that the fact there's always someone looking out for him is why he can't do anything right alone. If he goes with this man now, he gives up the small measure of confidence he gained, the tiny streak in him that was ready to fight to show Mal and Zoe what he's made of.
"Whoever you're fighting for would accept that it's better to survive," the man says, without turning.
Tracey touches his gun. "Who are you fighting for?"
"I'm fighting for money, bein' a mercenary an' all. Right now the Alliance is payin' me best."
He closes his eyes as he brings the gun up, stumbles back when the bullet is spit out of the gun, runs and stumbles across the gravel when the man falls. Mal would've shot him already. But he's not Mal. He's just Tracey, and he wants Mal to approve. So he has to keep fighting, has to go out alone and exposed, and somehow survive to look Mal in the eyes again and show him what he's become -- and what he's become had better be a soldier and not a coward.
Pairing: None
Warnings: Angst, violence
Rating: PG
Summary: Tracey's all alone now. For
over_look.Tracey tries not to focus on the blood that's by now pretty much all over him. He tries to ignore the scrape of gravel under his body as he wriggles forward. He also tries to ignore the horrible feeling of exposure, the feeling that somebody's watching him, laughing at his attempts. Once upon a time, Zoe and Mal would've been on either side, making him feel safe, protectin' him at the potential cost of their own lives and the rest of their little squad behind --
But they've been sent off somewhere else, leaving him behind. Or, well, not leaving him behind, because since then he's changed planets too. They're out on Hera -- a pretty planet before the war, by all accounts, though by now Tracey is pretty gorramn sure that every planet touched by the war looks the same. He could close his eyes and be back on the planet where Zoe Alleyne last grinned at him and said 'be careful, little one'.
Careful. Slowly, achingly careful. His belly scraping over the gravel. If Mal were here, he'd've gotten sick of the slow crawl forward by now. Made some kind of diversion, whooping and loving it even when they were shootin' at him. Zoe would've --
That's another thing he shouldn't really think of. He's alone now, and all there is the gravel, and the fact that he hasn't had a shave in five days and a proper wash in nine. There's the smell of gunpowder and dying people and dead people decaying. All of it should be ignored in favour of the long crawl forward. Followin' orders.
'You follow my orders right, private, and you may yet survive the war,' Mal had once said, and though they weren't Mal's orders, perhaps the same would work.
Trust to instinct. Trust to the sergeant. Trust --
A soft scrape of a boot on gravel -- not one of his own sounds, and Tracey surprises himself with his instincts now, rolling over onto his back just before the soldier behind him stabs a knife down into him. A short sharp tussle, and Tracey has closed his eyes and fights purely to get the person off, and then all he can hear is his own panting and the warm soak of the man's blood into his clothes. More blood.
"You killed him," a voice observes, above him, and Tracey doesn't open his eyes. For a moment, he can pretend it's Mal or Zoe stood over him, startled, can pretend that he's proved himself or something, that they're proud of him. That was all he'd wanted, for a longer time than he'd really care to admit. But he's on his own now.
He opens his eyes, but doesn't look at the man standing over him. "Yes."
"Gutsy, aren't you?"
He wants to say no. Instead he rolls to his feet, aware of the gun tracking his movement, and picks himself, brushing away dirt and gravel before realising that there's no chance he'll do any good that way. "Which side are you on?"
"Freelance. You were makin' a real mess of yourself there, y'know."
And there he'd thought he was doing well. Tracey ran a hand through his hair, dislodging grit and finding dried blood in it from a headwound he didn't know he had that starts to hurt only when his fingers brush it, and then continues in a throbbing ache.
"You tryin' to get to a camp or something?"
Tracey shrugs slightly, looking the stranger over briefly. He looks clean, with a bandage wrapped round his head and upper arm. Well cared for.
Might be a betrayal of everythin' his old sergeant was, but his new sergeant ain't Mal and, well -- 'look after yourself, private', he'd said. Look after yourself. So Tracey straightens and stretches to ease the kinks out of his spine. "Would you happen to have place for an Independent turned freelance?"
The man seems amused. "You're not that great a soldier, boy. Best you sit out the war. We'll have a place for you. You comin'?"
Tracey turns to glance over his shoulder. The rest of his group left him behind long ago, and he think he can hear the sound of their gunfire. Their dying screams. He's stood up in a desolation of what used to be a city. People's homes. Maybe once upon a time a group of kids played ball where he's standin' now. Now there's nothing, and there's a prickle in his back that makes him feel like he's being watched. Exposed.
"Yeah," he mutters, and kicks a bit of the gravel.
"Don't feel ashamed, kid," the man says, leading him away across the gravel, secure in the knowledge that he knew what he was doing. "Somewhere along the line someone taught you well, but you just aren't soldier material. Best you let us shelter you."
Tracey has always thought of it as an advantage that people will take care of him. Now he thinks about it, he realises that the fact there's always someone looking out for him is why he can't do anything right alone. If he goes with this man now, he gives up the small measure of confidence he gained, the tiny streak in him that was ready to fight to show Mal and Zoe what he's made of.
"Whoever you're fighting for would accept that it's better to survive," the man says, without turning.
Tracey touches his gun. "Who are you fighting for?"
"I'm fighting for money, bein' a mercenary an' all. Right now the Alliance is payin' me best."
He closes his eyes as he brings the gun up, stumbles back when the bullet is spit out of the gun, runs and stumbles across the gravel when the man falls. Mal would've shot him already. But he's not Mal. He's just Tracey, and he wants Mal to approve. So he has to keep fighting, has to go out alone and exposed, and somehow survive to look Mal in the eyes again and show him what he's become -- and what he's become had better be a soldier and not a coward.
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I am slowly converting the world to the love of Tracey. This makes me cackle a little.
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