This fic here was written for a challenge community over on livejournal; auabc. Therefore... It's an AU, as in this never really happened. It takes place before the series and during the war. There's rape! But not graphic, it fades to black. And character death. Don't complain to me about Mal being a bitch, it is the way it is. Otherwise... Have fun (if you can with a story like this) and leave some feedback.
Come Around
The war ends with a bang. The news rips through the camp and everyone is cheering. All grins and tussling. They're going to get out of here. No more of this prisoner crap. They're going home.
Except that it's never that simple.
They don't just get to pack up their torn belongings and torn dignity and head off. Because the Independence lost and they're none to happy about it. Release of the prisoner's is to be negotiated. And it's a long process.
The high ranking and important get out first, within a few days. The rest are...hopefully not forgotten. But there are other – more important – things that come first. The Alliance just doesn't have the time to come and rescue them off some tiny encampment moon by the border planets.
Wash tells himself that he understands all this. It doesn't stop him hating the Alliance with a quiet fury every time the Independence soldiers on base get bored. Or vengeful. And he has to watch as they have their fun tormenting the other inmates. Tormenting him.
He tells himself that he understands them as well. They did just lose a war, that's bound to make anyone a bit tetchy. He hates them as much as he hates the Alliance.
He gets a glimmer of hope just once. When two soldiers are slamming him face first into a wall. Old injuries that never healed properly – never got the proper treatment – scream at him in protest and he cries out. It's only met with scathing laughter.
But just for a moment, he thinks that maybe help has found him. Someone is going to put a stop to this fucking barbarity.
"Hey!" A hard voice calls across and the two holding Wash go silent in the taunts that they had been spitting out.
Wash cranes his head around and ends up meeting dead blue eyes. He thinks he doesn't want to be on the receiving end of this man. He shakes his head desperately, whispered 'no' on his lips, and tries to jerk away. The grips on his arms just tighten painfully and he's too weak to fight properly.
Then that moment comes. Where there's a flicker of something in dead eyes - Pity? Lord, let it be pity. - for just a moment. And for just a moment, it looks like someone might actually put a stop to this.
But hope is fleeting, especially here and the look is gone in a second.
"Hey, Sarge," the one on the left greets the man jovially. Wash winces as his arm is twisted and he's pulled around to face this man full on, held tight between the two soldiers. "You know who this is?"
The dead gaze doesn't waver, not even for curiosity. "They all look alike. All just Alliance."
"Ah, but this ones special. A pilot. Flew a skiff in Serenity Valley. You know who shot him down?"
Wash is about ready to hyperventilate when this Sargent takes a step up to him, gives him a critical look over and Wash has to drop his gaze. He closes his eyes and waits for what he can't stop, flinching when there's movement in front of him.
"Dinner's in twenty minutes, don't be late."
Wash's eyes snap open in time to watch the Sargent walking away.
It's dark where Wash sleeps even with the spot lamps. Not that he really sleeps all that often. Hunger from meager meals and the constant ache through his body keep him awake. When he does manage to drop off it takes nothing to jerk him awake.
The sound of footfalls approaching. His eyes snap open to stare ahead into nothing and he tenses. Finds himself selfishly hoping that the footsteps will veer away from him and to someone else. There's no such luck for him though. Shoes step into his field of vision and someone stoops down next to him, lays a hand on his shoulder that Wash doesn't jerk away from. It takes a lot of force not to when he expects it to turn painful at even the slightest provocation.
"Time for another hour of pain filled fun, then? Don't suppose you could pick on someone else for awhile. Say each other." He shouldn't mouth off to them but the words are out before he can think on them and he braces for impact. For that touch to turn painful.
It's vastly surprising when nothing happens. The soldier just shifts and sits cross legged in front of him. Wash looks up to him hesitantly, wondering if they've figured out some new game. Sit and stare at him until he drives himself mad with worry. His eyes meet blue ones and he swallows hard, he'd hoped he wouldn't see this man again.
"Sit up," he's instructed and with a pause, he pushes himself to do so. He doesn't meet the Sargent's eyes even as he can feel them boring into him. He wonders what he's done to gather this man's attention, wishes he could take it back. "I shot down your skiff."
Wash jerks his head up for a brief moment in confusion. "Yeah... Good aim."
"You tore up a lot of my men."
"It was war," Wash softly defends himself. War that he never wanted to be a part of.
The Sargent doesn't seem to care that he's spoken, just goes on. "Don't know why they drug you out of there and kept you. Coulda let the Alliance take you. War was over."
Wash can't stop a bitter snort and now he does meet the Sargent's eyes. "Guess they wanted you to have your prize."
"Maybe they did," the Sargent agrees with him and Wash's heart thuds far too hard. He's terrified of this man like he isn't the others. The others are just angry, blinded with it, they want to get something back for all they've lost. First glance told him that this man just didn't care anymore. And he knows that a man that's empty like this will go to lengths that others won't.
Wash shuffles back, tries to get away but the Sargent moves much faster than him. A hand around his throat is shoving him back onto the hard ground he'd been curled up on before. He moans at the shock of pain through him, eyes clenching shut.
He doesn't snap them open until he feels a puff of breath over his face and ends up staring up into blue eyes that are far too close. He wants to jerk away but his head just meets the ground and gets him nowhere. He's shaking, feels like he's suffocating even if the hand wrapped around his throat isn't constricting.
"I ain't a monster." Something finally stirs in the Sargent but Wash thinks he likes it even less. He shakes his head, tries to agree with him, placate him, but can't get the words out when there are sudden lips covering his own.
Fuck. This can't be happening and Wash finally struggles. His hands push at the Sargent's chest to try and dislodge him but he can't. Tries to jerk his head away but the hand around his neck just tightens. He whimpers pathetically, hands still futilely pushing against the chest over him. He wants to say stop or something but refuses to part his lips to the tongue that's questing over them.
The Sargent pulls back after a too long moment, panting breath over Wash's lips. "Not a monster," he insists again and Wash knows better than to say that he fucking well is. None of the other soldiers have gone this far. "I just want...need...I..." He breaks off in frustration but Wash doesn't need him to finish.
"To feel. I get that but this ain't the best way to go about it." He tries to hide the trembling panic in his voice.
Wash shouldn't bother to feel that hope. But the Sargent goes quiet for a moment and maybe... "Don't got another way."
Wash cries out his despair for the camp to hear when the Sargent's lips are back to his, rough and forcing, with hands the same way. This monster just keeps going and Wash can't stop him.
He gets out of the camp a week later with no sign of the Sargent. Life goes on and all that. He refuses to think about it. Just get on with it, recover, go out into the world and get a job. Get back in the pilot's seat because it's the only thing he loves. The only thing that makes him feel.
Jobs come and go and now he's looking for a new one. Something that will get him away from the Alliance that betrayed him and the Independence which used him.
There's more than one offer but it's the Firefly that sticks out.
He doesn't get more than two feet up the ramp to meet the captain before he's hearing a rough voice. Broken voice. He remembers it and his gaze darts up from where he was staring at the floor.
"I ain't a monster."
Just in time to see the barrel of the gun.