Ray of Light
Ray of Light
A/N: This is the first of a three-part series I've been working on; parts two and three will follow later. Prequil to "Firefly," "Serenity" and my other story "Serenity's Little Sister."
Disclaimer: This storyline is purely from my own imagination, and I apologize if it conflicts with anything important in the Whedonverse that I have not yet come across.
Did You Hear What That Purplebelly Said?
Niamh Conner scrunched down, making herself as small as she could. She tried desperately to melt into the trunks and crates surrounding her. Inadvertently she held her breath. They couldn't find her, not now. Her mother was dead, so why were they still chasing after her? She was only fifteen; what harm could she do? What harm had she done since her mother's death? None, that's what. For three years, she'd done absolutely nothing. But they still chased her.
Her mother had dragged her halfway across the 'Verse and back on those stupid missions for most of her life. And for what? The woman's ravings had gotten them run off of Shadow, gotten their home burned to the ground, gotten her grandmother killed. And after that, it had only gotten worse. Aoife Conner had been the only person her daughter had had stable contact with--she'd made sure of it. After two years of moving every couple of weeks, Niamh had stopped trying to make friends, stopped trying to talk to people. She'd reverted to speaking only the Gaelic she'd been taught as a child, and had nearly forgotten what English sounded like. It had taken a toll on her speech, and she'd had to work hard to hide her accent. After two and a half years of practice emulating the speech of those around her, she finally got to the point where she believed it only came out when she wanted it to.
Now she hid among the cargo of a transport ship that she had just helped to unload. She'd shaken the Alliance troopers back on Beaumonde, but apparently these troops hadn't gotten the memo about her mother and had heard about a young girl with long blond hair who talked funny. She caught her breath as one started looking through the crates. "Look, I told you, I ain't seen the girl you're talkin' about. I keep a register of all the passengers I take on; you can look at it; it's just inside there." Technically, she'd paid the pilot, but over the week-long trip, she'd luckily also won his favor. She had a knack for that kind of thing--people could never stay mad at her, and those she was with tended to get better business deals when they took her along.
"And there's no chance she could have stowed away?"
"Officer, look at how small my ship is; do you honestly think someone could sneak on board and not be found? Especially since I just came from Beaumonde; that's a week's trip, and I didn't make any stops along the way."
"Mr. Houghton, this girl is very slippery and very dangerous. She'd just as soon slit your throat as smile at you."
"Then it says somethin' that I'm still alive, doesn't it, Officer?"
The purple-belly stiffened a little, straightening his back. "You keep that picture. And for your own protection, you call us the second you see her."
"I surely will, Officer." Perry Houghton nodded to the trooper and watched as the group of them moved on to the next transport. Three ships later, he finally bent down next to his cargo. "Okay, Sweetheart, you're safe."
Niamh let out a huge sigh of relief. "Thank you so much, Perry. I don't know what I'd have done without ya."
"Don't worry about it. I hate 'em just as much as you do. I fought for the Independents, remember?"
"Aye. That's why I picked yer ship." He reached down a hand and pulled her to her feet.
"It doesn't even really look like you," he laughed, holding up the age-progressed photo for her to see. The last known photo the Alliance had taken of her was when she was eight, and they'd used digital imaging software to make a guess at what she looked like now. She had fewer freckles, a rounder face, slightly bigger ears, and a squarer jaw line than they'd anticipated. "So where are you gonna head now?"
"Well," she began, brushing the dirt from her pants. "I don't rightly know yet. I need a good place ta lay low for a while, see if I can't make 'em think I died or somethin'."
"I hear Triumph's a pretty good place to hide out; not much there, full of amish-like people."
"Nah, this is fine. I'll have at least a couple 'a days here 'fore I hafta think about headin' somewhere else." She picked her long brown coat up off the ground and shook the dust from it. "Just might be able ta find someone here who'll take pity on me, buy me a meal or somethin'."
"Like hell you will." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a few coins. "It's not much, I know," he shrugged, dropping them into her hand. "But it should get ya started . . . Or at least get ya a drink at that cantina over there."
She reached up and wrapped her arms around his neck. "Thanks, Perry."
"It's nothin', Sweetheart."
Letting him go, she pulled her coat over her shoulders, and sighed. "No, it's everything."
Inside the cantina was a bustle of drinking and business. Must be a Friday. She walked up to the bar and took a seat on one of the stools. "A bit young ta be in here by yerself, ain't ya?" The bartender was a grizzled old man. His beard still held a little brown, but his hair had long since gone white. His one brown eye squinted at her while the other hid beneath an eye patch.
"Reckon so, Sir, but I ain't got nobody else."
"Sir?" The man almost looked impressed. "Well now . . . Talkin' like I'm someone important."
"Way I figure," she smiled, "you might be the next man ta give me a job for a week or two, which would mean I get ta eat. That makes ya pretty important to me."
"Shoot, Little One," the man laughed. "Clean yourself up, you might just be pretty enough ta make some decent tips servin' drinks." He reached his hand across the bar. "I'm Dex."
"Niamh," she said, setting her hand in his without a second thought.
"Well, Neev, I can offer ya a bath, a room fer six days, plus two meals and twenty a day in payment."
"I'd appreciate it greatly," she beamed.
"Then git over here 'n hang up that coat," he smiled.
How You Get There's the Worthier Part
Six days had been more than enough time for Niamh to earn some money. She wasn't exactly the ugliest girl in the 'Verse, and the men who frequented the bar weren't exactly the prettiest. But she flirted with them all the same, making them feel like they were worth every bit as much as the rich men from the Core worlds. By the end of the week, they were all sorry to see her go. "You sure ya can't stay, Little One?" Dex handed her her jacket.
"You said six days," she argued.
"I know what I said, but shoot, I done more business in the past five than I got all last month. For that, I can afford ta keep that room open for ya."
"Well, as much as I'd love ta tell ya I'll stay, I need ta get goin'."
"Goin' where?"
"Wherever the Alliance ain't," she laughed.
"You find a place like that, Baby, and you come get me." He kissed her on the cheek and walked her to the door. She nodded solemnly and gave him one last smile before turning and heading down the street. "Come back anytime ya like, Little One." She spun around to see him waving and lifted her hand in return. She'd love to be able to stay in one place, but staying in one place was dangerous. She didn't know exactly where to go, but she knew she had to move. Working at the cantina had given her a couple of contacts who told her where she might find a ship she could ride with for cheap.
A ten minute walk brought her to the docks where a group of about seven transport ships sat loading up to head out again. She reveled in the sight of that many people in one area. It meant she could disappear more easily. Her tall brown boots took her to an odd looking ship. It stood straight up in the air like an unfortunate phallic symbol. "Where ya headed, Honey?" A man with greasy, shaggy blond hair and a tattoo under his left eye asked her.
"Depends," she answered, squinting up at the aircraft. "Where ya headed?"
"Well," the man smiled slyly, "our first stop is Shadow but we're endin' up on Persephone."
"How much?" she asked, turning her attention back to him.
"Thirty to Shadow, Forty if you wanna stick around until Persephone."
"What's the ship's name?"
"What?"
"What's 'er name?" she repeated.
"His," he corrected. "His name is Brutus." Niamh sighed. That was a terrible name for a ship. Although, it did seem to fit; it was a terrible looking ship. "I'll overlook putting you in the roster," he offered.
"Alright." She pulled some money out of her pocket and looked at it. Now the question was, where did she want to go? Would it be safe again on Shadow? Could she really go home? Or should she head out to Persephone and really disappear for a while?
"Honey?" She met his gaze and narrowed her eyes at him. "We're headin' off in fifteen minutes. You wanna come, or d'you got a reason to stay?"
"Shadow," she said handing him the money. "And if you call me 'Honey' again, your ship'll have a new mechanic." She walked past him, allowing the corner of her mouth to curl up at his surprised look.
"How'd she know I was the mechanic?" he mumbled to himself.
She headed up to the kitchen area where all the rest of the passengers and crew were gathered. The group nodded to her as she approached. "Is that it?" the captain asked as the mechanic joined them.
"Yessir."
"Alright." He addressed the group. "We've got eight passenger rooms, which means a few of you are going to have to double up. I hope you don't mind. It should take us about two days to get to Shadow, and three more for Persephone. You're welcome to anything we have in the kitchen or the lounge, but we'd prefer it if you stayed away from the bridge area. Unfortunately, our pilot is new."
"What happened to the last one?" A woman asked innocently.
The captain shot her a look, but didn't say anything. He simply turned and walked away. "Well," Niamh exclaimed quietly, "he's just a ray 'a sunshine i'n't 'e?"
A young man to her right laughed a little. "You can share a room with me if ya like." Niamh turned to look at him. "I won't try anyfin' I promise. I just don't wanna get stuck wif one 'a these arrogant poofs, y'know?"
"Niamh Conner." She held out her hand to him.
"Brian Farrow," he responded, placing his hand in hers. "But m' friends call me 'Badger'." He turned, threw his bag over his shoulder, offered her his other arm, and the pair headed down the hall toward the rooms.
"Friends, huh?"
"Yeah," he laughed. "Even poorly dressed scants from Dyton Colony 'ave friends. Though, I do 'ave to admit, mine ah more like 'associates'."
"Associates or accomplices?" she asked with a coy smile. Without noticing, she let her true accent slip out on the last word.
"Well, what about you then?" he jokingly accused. "What sort of mischief did someone as gohgeous as you get into, huh?"
"M' ma was a bit of a loose cannon actually. Spent most 'a m' life hiding." His Dyton accent was bringing out her Gaelic one whether she wanted it to or not.
He opened the door to the room and held it for her. "Now, dat is a shame." She laughed a little as he followed her through the door. He dropped his bag and watched her pull out the chair and sit down. "Oh, um . . ." He'd just noticed that there was only one bed. Niamh followed his eyes and shrugged.
"That's fine; I'll sleep on the floor," she offered, pulling at one of her boots.
"What? And let you go out 'ere and complain to everyone else that I'm a lousy wanker 'oo made you sleep on the floah?" He took another step toward her and reached for her foot. She raised her eyebrow at him but didn't resist when he pulled her boot off for her. "We can't 'ave that then, can we?" He gave her a sly smile as he removed her other boot and sat down on the bed to take off his own shoes.
"So what's your story then, Badger?"
"Ya seemed ta have me pegged earliah; what d'you fink?" Her eyes weren't convinced. He heaved a big sigh. "'Ow much time ya got?" he laughed.
"Two days," she replied, entirely serious. His brow furrowed a bit; he wasn't used to people being interested in him. She hopped up from her chair and sat down next to him. "So tell me about you."
"Well, for star'ers, you can call me Brian if ya like," he offered. "I'm twen'y-free . . . off Dyton Colony . . . just gettin' outta Lock Down."
After a couple hours, Brian was almost tired of talking about himself. They'd inadvertently migrated to a horizontal position. Now they harmlessly laid looking at the ceiling, rambling on and on. "You've gotta be older'n fifteen," he insisted.
"Nope," she yawned. "Just grew up earlier'n I should've." Her head rested against his shoulder, and she closed her eyes.
"You gettin' tiyad, Love?"
"Yeah."
"Alright, I'll head ta the floor then." He started to sit up, but she grabbed at his sleeve.
"I'm comfortable," she objected.
"You're not worried I'm gonna . . ."
"A, Thiarna," she exclaimed.
"Where'd you learn that?"
"Where'd you learn 'at?" she shot back.
"Home . . . I fought Dyton was the only place Gaels still existed."
"Nah, most of the Irish and Scottish Gaels ended up on Shadow."
"Shadow? Really?" He paused for a minute, thinking. "So you're gettin' off there then?"
"That's the notion." She sighed. "Not really sure if I'll be welcome there, but I feel like I need ta try, y'know?"
Back on Shadow, Where I'm From
They stood in a shop in town looking at the various trinkets that sat on the shelves. "So, what's 'at one s'posed to be, Love?"
"He's a leprechaun!" Niamh laughed, now openly using her natural accent in front of him.
". . . Right . . ." They strolled farther down the aisle.
"Leaving for Persephone in fifteen minutes!" called Brutus' mechanic from the front door. Brian's smile disappeared, and his eyes lost their sparkle. He turned to face Niamh, taking her hands in his.
"Ya sure ya won't come? I'll pay the rest 'a your fare."
She pursed her lips, and her eyebrows wrinkled in worry. "I can't," she breathed. "Are you sure ya want to go?"
"No, but I got mates waitin' for me, got a job waitin' for me." She wrapped her arms around his neck. This was the most solid connection she'd allowed herself to make with anyone since her mother died.
"I know." She sniffled a bit. "You need to go, and I need to stay." She let him go and looked him in the eyes again. The corner of his mouth turned up in a smile devoid of happiness. Her gaze darted quickly to the rack next to them, and she picked up a black bowler-style hat. "Here." Reaching up, she placed it on his head. "It looks good on you." Her mouth returned the joyless half smile.
"If fings don't work out--y'know . . . Come find me on Persephone, alright?"
"Yer gonna stay there so I can find ya?" she replied, slightly amazed. "What if it takes years?"
"Then I won't leave." He placed a hand on the side of her face and pulled her into a kiss. She clutched the lapels of his jacket as though it might fuse the two together, and he'd be forced to stay. But she knew she couldn't keep him and eventually let go. He wiped away the tear that ran down her cheek, kissed her again quickly and headed for the door. On his way out he dropped some money on the counter, spun around and pulled down gently on the brim of the hat. He would wear it until it fell apart. Niamh's hands flew to her face, wiping it dry, and a few breaths later, she was ready to rejoin the rest of the world.
Outside, the sunlight shone as though it were trying to cheer her up. But it wouldn't work; she would just forge on and hope that either she would eventually make it to Persephone or would be accepted back here. "Wo de ma, that sun is bright," commented a man standing on the porch of the shop. "Why the hell d'they call it Shadow?"
"'Cause around November, the sun goes down fer four months straight," she spouted back flatly without looking at him. Then she lifted her chin and headed east.
The walk took Niamh the better part of the day. She'd expected it to, as the ranch had been a two hour ride from town. But eventually she came upon the tall arched sign that had once been the entranceway. The Ray of Light. It had been in her family for generations, typically run by the matriarch. But her grandmother, Maeve Reynolds, had been the last. It would never belong to her because the sign she now stood looking at was the only piece of it left standing. Beyond the archway lay a mound of black, a sea of ashes where a home once stood.
Her brown boots were covered with soot as she walked through the house. Near the back corner she found a trunk that by some miracle had been completely charred on the outside, but its contents were fairly intact. "Well, you were right, Grandma Maeve. That hope chest did nearly last forever." She knelt and began pulling items out. A couple of dolls, a newspaper clipping with a picture of the ranch's opening, a pair of baby shoes--she lay them all carefully on the ground, trying to keep them as clean as possible. Then she came to an old looking book. Faded Celtic knots adorned the edges of the cover. Inside she found it was a photo album. She held back tears as she saw pictures of her descendants building the ranch, tending the cattle. It was a record of how the ranch had grown over time. She found a snapshot of a young blond woman sitting on a horse staring off into the distance. "Grandma Maeve," she smiled, touching the woman's face. Near the end, she came to a set of pictures of a young man and woman. Her brow furrowed a bit; these were her parents. She recognized her mother's jet black hair and green eyes right away. The man was a little harder to see; he didn't seem to like having his picture taken, so he shied away from letting the camera see his face. But as she turned the page, he smiled up at her, holding a blond-headed little baby. "Ma always said I got yer eyes, Da." Her finger trailed along the photo, and her eyes found the caption beneath. Sept. 21, 2501. Saoirse Maeve Reynolds, born to Malcolm and Béibhinn Reynolds. "So m' real name is Saoirse." She'd always known her mother had changed their names when they left Shadow seven years ago, but Aoife--or rather, Béibhinn--had refused to tell her what her original name was.
Very gently, she placed the items back into the hope chest. They'd survived this long, so she figured they'd be alright a little while longer. She stood up and brushed herself off. All that soot would be a dead giveaway that she'd been poking around up here. Then she turned and headed back to town. She had to find out if her father was still alive.
My Mama Owned a Ranch
It almost didn't seem real. She'd been traveling for nearly a year trying to find him, and now he'd be on Persephone. How hard was that going to be? Of course, if he didn't show, she could always go looking for Brian. She didn't expect him to still be there waiting for her, but a girl could dream, couldn't she? Her long blond hair was pulled up into a bun behind her head and fastened with a chopstick. Out of the breast pocket of her long brown coat, she pulled a small silver flask. Celtic knots, etched into the chrome, wove their way down the sides. She twisted off the cap, took a swig, and replaced it. As the liquid entered her mouth, she was careful not to let it hit her gums. If there was one thing she had been willing to learn from her mother it was the old family recipe for uisca beatha, the potato whiskey that filled the small flat bottle; though, since it wasn't properly brewed, it would really be considered poitín. Only by making enough for the whole ship had she been able to talk her last ward into allowing her to brew it. Warmth spread through her chest, encouraging her enough to take the first step.
She walked among the ships in the yard, trying to figure out which one would be his. The postman on JianYing had said he flew a firefly. She didn't think there were any of those left. They took a lot of love to keep in the sky. More than most people had patience to give. But sure enough, up ahead on her right was a firefly parked between two ships that dwarfed the bird. A young girl sat outside with a brightly colored umbrella. She ambled up to the boat, and heaved a sigh before approaching the girl. "Where ya headed?" She'd given up trying to hide her Gaelic accent.
"Whitefall," the girl smiled.
"How much?"
"You don't look like you're in a hurry to be goin' someplace."
"I'm not really lookin' at the destination," she admitted. "I'm lookin' fer a person. Who's the captain?"
The girl looked around and then whispered, "Malcolm Reynolds."
"You look like yer not s'posed ta be givin' out that information." The girl looked slightly ashamed. "So why'd ya tell me?"
"Don't know," the girl shrugged. "Just somethin' about you I guess; don't look like the type to be an Alliance spy."
"Well, ya got that part right; actually kinda tryin' ta shake 'em m'self."
"Then you came to the right ship," she smiled. "Can't say for sure how long Cap'n'll let you stay on, but you play your cards right, 'n he might let you ride with us for a while." She stood up and set her umbrella on the ground. "I'm Kaylee." A hand smudged with dirt and grease waited for hers.
"Saoirse," she replied, placing her hand in Kaylee's.
"SEER-sha?"
"Aye."
"Come on, I'll show ya Serenity." Kaylee nodded toward the open cargo bay door, and the two girls headed inside.
"Serenity?"
"Yep," Kaylee affirmed. "That's our girl, here." Serenity. Now that is a great name for a ship. As the girls entered, Kaylee led Saoirse up to a tall, strong-looking black woman. "This is Zoë. She's our first mate." The woman turned and nodded "hello," then stopped for a second as if surprised by something in Saoirse's appearance. "Zoë this is Saoirse. She's gonna be ridin' with us."
"Where's your stop, Little One?" Zoë asked, almost pumping the girl for information.
"As far as the money I have'll take me," Saoirse returned. Zoë nodded a "touché" and turned to head up the metal staircase toward the kitchen. "Not much for talkin' is she?"
"Nope," Kaylee laughed. "She's real nice, though; you'll see." Kaylee looped her arm in Saoirse's and led her up to the bridge. "Now, normally Cap'n likes us to stay out of here. Y'know, not bug the pilot."
"Oh, I don't mind bein' bothered nearly as much as Mal thinks," A man retorted from the pilot's chair. His moustache bobbed up and down as he gnawed away at a piece of something. Saoirse narrowed her eyes at him a bit, afraid the thing was going to jump off his face and attack her. "Hoban Washburne," he offered. "But most people call me 'Wash' for short."
"Saoirse," she returned.
"Wash is the best pilot in the 'Verse," Kaylee gushed.
"I don't know about that," he defended. "But I can hold my own." Kaylee then pulled the girl through the doorway and down a short set of stairs.
"Now, these are our bunks." She pointed to the ladders lining the sides near the floor. "Mine, Cap'n's and Wash's on this side." Her finger waved to the left, then flipped to the opposite side of the hall. "And Zoë's and Jayne's on this side. Jayne and the Cap'n are out right now, but they'll be back soon. You prob'ly won't meet them til right 'fore we head out."
Kaylee had been more or less right. They sat in the lounge playing with a deck of cards when they heard the cargo bay door closing. Heavy footsteps clattered up the stairs and Malcolm Reynolds peeked his head through the doorway. "Zoë says we got a passenger?"
"Ooh, yeah. Cap'n this is Saoirse. Saoirse, this is our cap'n, Mal Reynolds." Mal looked at the girl, who dipped her head respectfully, and then her eyes met his. They nearly stopped his heart. He'd seen those eyes before; but for the life of him, he just couldn't remember where.
"We met before?" he asked warily. He knew that name too.
"In another life," she offered with a shrug. She was just as stunned by him as he was her. She still couldn't believe her father was alive, that he was standing right in front of her. It was understandable that he didn't recognize her; he hadn't seen her in over ten years.
"Where ya headed, Saoirse?" She had to suppress a smile at the sound of his flawless pronunciation of her name.
"Far as yer willin' ta take me. I been tryin' ta shake the Alliance fer the past couple a years, so I gotta keep movin'." Mal softened a little at the way she sounded ashamed.
"What would the Alliance want a little thing like you for?"
"'Cause 'a m'ma. Aoife Conner . . . terrorist bomber."
"She was your mama?" He almost seemed impressed. "Sorry to hear that." His eyes dropped to the floor for a second, and he gathered himself. "Well, you're welcome on my boat 'long as you can pay your share of fuel, food, 'n the like."
"I greatly appreciate it, Sir." He nodded and turned to leave.
"Chow's in twenty," he called over his shoulder.
Public Relations
"Who're you?" Jayne wasn't exactly the subtlest of people. They all sat around the table eating; though, what exactly it was they were eating was lost on Saoirse. But it was food, so she didn't complain. They'd been sitting and eating in near silence for a good five minutes before Jayne realized there was an unfamiliar face among them.
"My name's Saoirse," she responded. "You must be Jayne. It's nice to meet you."
"You talk weird." He shoved another bite of food into his mouth.
"Aye," she affirmed with a shrug.
"Where's your accent from, Saoirse?" Zoë interrupted.
"M' ma," she answered almost helplessly, not trying to be snotty. "She's the only one I ever really heard talkin' on account 'a we were always on the move."
"People didn't talk in the places you moved?" Saoirse took a deep breath, trying to ignore Jayne's comment, but he was really starting to damage her calm. She'd done nothing to deserve this ridicule.
"You seem to be doin' alright for being on your own," Wash observed innocently.
"Prob'ly just found the right people to hump," Jayne blurted.
"Titim gan éirí ort," Saoise hissed. The group had been embarrassed by Jayne's comment, but they were perplexed by Saoirse's; all except Mal, who understood her words, but not how she knew them.
"Where'd you learn that?" His surprised, warning tone told her she'd pushed a little too far.
Standing up, she mumbled, "Sorry," and hurried out of the room and down to the cargo bay. Mal flashed a look at Zoë, and then followed her. When he finally caught up, he found her sitting on the metal landing, hanging her feet over the edge. A sniffle told him that she was crying, or trying not to, so he approached her carefully.
"You wanna tell me what that was all about?" He took a seat next to her and tried to catch her eyes. "I know what you said, and I'm not sayin' it wasn't warranted, but I ain't heard anybody use those words in a long time."
"I wa'n't lyin' when I said Ma 'n I moved around a lot. But we weren't always. Once we had a home, a family. But when most 'a the men from the ranch went off to fight in the war, Ma took it upon herself to bring the fightin' ta us. Her ravin' got our home burned ta the ground--m'grandma with it--got everyone I ever knew killed. When she finally died 'erself I didn't know whether ta feel upset 'r relieved." The storm raging on the young girl's face tugged at Mal's heart. He knew what it was to lose a family and a home . . . Wait . . .
"Where'd you say you're from?" he asked suspiciously. She looked him in the eyes for a second. Why do I know those eyes? Then almost grudgingly, she pulled a photograph from her boot and handed it to him. He caught his breath at the sight of what had once been his wife and daughter. His jaw clenched. Was it really possible? "Where'd you get this?"
"The place I useda call m' home."
"You said your mama's name was Aoife Conner."
"Aye. The same way mine 'as Niamh Conner fer ten years. Didn't find out m' real name was Saoirse 'til I went back ta the ranch 'n found that." She turned her gaze back to her feet and sniffled again. "I'm not lookin' fer handouts; I just didn't know what else ta do. The Universe is a big place when you're all alone."
He heaved a sigh. "Ain't it just." Her head still hung, refusing to look at him as though she were ashamed to have even entertained the thought of finally being with her father again. "Tell ya what, when we get to Whitefall, we find someone who can do a blood test just to make sure. No matter what it says though, you are welcome on this boat. Might even be able to find you some work helping out around here to earn your keep." He handed the photograph back to her, and she replaced it in her boot shaft and stood up.
"Yer a good man," she whispered and headed to the passenger dorm that was to be her living quarters for the next few days.
Mal got to his feet and headed back into the kitchen. "'S she okay?" Kaylee's face was wrinkled in concern.
"She'll be fine," he affirmed. "But gorramit, Jayne, you will show her whatever bit 'a kindness you got in you, or I'll throw you out that airlock. She's been through too much already. Dong ma?"
Jayne just grumbled something in return and finished his food. "I wonder what it was she said," Kaylee mused, knowing full well that Mal had understood the words Saoirse had used.
"It's an old Gaelic curse," Mal returned, appeasing her. "She told Jayne to drop dead."
"Hmm, I'll have to have her teach me that one." No one was really listening to Wash's comment, but he was used to that by now. He almost hoped that this girl they carried would stay around a little longer than Whitefall; he could use someone to talk to.