Disclaimer: I don't own Firefly, Serenity, these characters, these words, or much of anything really. I'm actually typing this after breaking into someone's house and using their computer.

Author's Note: It's funny. You start out on TVtropes, reading about fanfiction. Then you start reading fanfiction again. And then you start –writing- fanfiction again, after a long hiatus. Anyway – I wanted to write something about pretty much my favorite pairing on television. Not sure how far I'll take it, but I'm still having fun right now. If you think that it should be continued, by all means let me know. Thanks for reading!

Not one of them wanted to talk about it. Not Inara. Not Zoe. Certainly not Mal. Kaylee would have started crying half-way through and Jayne, even if he had wanted to, would never have admitted it. That wasn't a part of himself that he was particularly disposed to showing, or acknowledging in general. As for Simon and River – neither of them felt like they had the right to say anything. Due in part to the heavy feeling of responsibility that both of them felt.

And yet here they were, gathered around the table in the dining area, staring at the floor, the ceiling, the smooth stainless-steel of the table littered with the remnants of the evening's meal, and finally at each other. But never making eye contact. Occasionally Mal would clear his throat, as if about to speak, but he never made it farther than that.

There were two empty chairs at the table now. One to the right of Zoe. One at the end, opposite Mal. No one had sat in them for weeks. No one dared to.

Occasionally, Simon would move his gaze up from his shoes to focus it on Kaylee. She'd lost weight. Looked a little pale. She was a strong girl. Had probably lost just as much as anyone else on the ship, maybe more. And still, even her usual attempts to keep on smiling failed her now. And he hadn't helped matters. He looked at her, and the guilt weighing on him grew.

Occasionally, Kaylee would stop picking at her food and look down the table at Simon. She wondered if he still saw her as pretty. He did. But there was nothing there anymore. She went back to picking at her food.

Everyone else at the table noticed these exchanges, but said nothing. Compared to the empty chairs, the angst between two former lovers seemed incredibly paltry.

Jayne was the first to stand. He hadn't finished his meal. This was notably out-of-character. He picked up his dishes, and walked into the kitchen, not returning. As if a dam had broken, the rest of the crew of Serenity followed suit, quickly picking up their things and scattering to the four winds. As Simon walked back through the dining room in the direction of the infirmary, he noticed that Zoe had not moved. She still sat there, next to the chair that not one of them would dare to fill, or remove. Her right hand hung down at her side, fingers searching for a matching set that they would never find again.

The lump in his throat grew a little more. He did not linger.

- - - - - -

Jayne needed exercise. He needed a fight, or a run, or to lift, or to do anything but sit in his bunk and practice his spitting. Sadly, this was not in the cards. He held the wool cap that his mama had sent him in his lap, fiddling with the spots at the edges were it was fraying apart, not at all aided by his habit of fiddling with them. It seemed like so long ago that he'd got it. He had a hard time keeping track of things anymore. Everything was just pre-Miranda and post.

Everything was screwed up after that.

Week one had been spent doing everything they could to distance themselves from the Alliance and from Miranda, and from the whole damn show of it. News had managed to squirm its way around about them, but a lot of it was just rumor, and what wasn't was thankfully accepted as much. It had taken some doing, but they'd managed to break away. And it allotted them all some time to spend to themselves, drifting in the black.

Problem being, no one had yet gotten the memo to drift back together.

Week two was when Kaylee and Simon fell apart. He didn't know how to feel about that one. He wasn't even sure how it had happened. Something about neither of them really getting anything out it, when it came right down to it. Without the infatuation, there was nothing there. Occasionally he entertained the idea that that would be a good epithet for the Doc as a whole. But he recognized that that stemmed more from mean-spiritedness than anything. He couldn't say that he had any specific opinions toward the man, at this point. Everything was too damn muddled.

Week two was also the week where they'd had to find out how many of their contacts had been wiped out. Turned out it was a fair number. And the ones that hadn't didn't want much to do with a ship with the kind of heat that Serenity currently had. Finally, some jiànhuò on some backwater moon had offered them some quick, easy work for modest pay. It wasn't much. But it would put fuel in the engine, and food in their mouths.

Then week three happened. And the quick, easy work turned out to be neither. A nasty by-product of none of them being willing to hold extended conversations with each other was that, surprise surprise, their in-mission communication suffered. So when an ambush sprung up, they barely scathed through it alive. Well, Mal and Zoe did. Jayne was shot in the right arm barely thirty seconds in, completely obliterating any chance he had of making a well-aimed shot. And he didn't feel like testing the old axiom regarding bringing knives to gun fights, at that point in time.

The doc had stitched him up pretty well. But he'd also said that Jayne should take it easy on the arm. Which meant no fighting. And no lifting. And no gorram thing to do.

He pushed himself off of his bunk. He was going for a walk.

- - - - -

Simon leaned against the counter, across from the chair where most of his patients sat while he mended them. The counter-top, like the rest of the infirmary, was immaculate. Save for the saline that he was surreptitiously allowing to drip onto it, his back turned, his entire body frozen entirely, save for the shaking in his arms. It was becoming a nightly ritual, at this point.

He couldn't stand being alone in his room, anymore. River had insisted at moving into Shepherd Book's old quarters. Mal had accepted. Simon had put up a bit of a fuss, until being politely reminded by Inara that River was a 16 year old girl that required the level of privacy normally associated with being a 16 year old girl. He, of course, had no better argument. And now, whenever he was alone, he felt panicked. At least in the infirmary, he felt in his element.

It was his weakness that had done it. If he'd just left Serenity – if he'd just managed things on his own . . . but then, that was a stupid thought. They would have been caught, and River would have been taken back. Dissected. And the world would keep on turning, as another Miranda entered the works. There was nothing he could have done differently, that would have made things a damn bit better.

This knowledge, of course, did absolutely nothing to alleviate his guilt.

He'd perfected stoicism, and propriety. So even now, tear-streaked and eyes red, his face was impassive. Even if he wanted to, he wasn't sure he could make it anything else.

Jayne entered. Simon turned, hearing the footsteps, before immediately resumed his position – almost forgetting that he was, at that moment, in tears. He was not fast enough.

Under any other circumstances, Jayne would comment. Torment. Mock. But for one reason or another, the sight of the Doc in such a state did nothing for him, save make him a might uncomfortable.

"What do you need, Jayne?" The Doc's tone was an obvious attempt at dismissive, which ended up simply sounding strained.

"Er . . . bandages. Arm."

Simon did not turn around. He knew that it most likely looked awkward, but he couldn't be bothered by that, right now. He pointed at the cabinet where the bandages were kept. Jayne had gone through his supplies (out of spite, more than out of curiosity) enough times so that he knew where they were.

Jayne said nothing, walking over to the cabinet and retrieving the box full of cloth bandages, wordlessly setting about swapping his currents ones, which had at this point stained through with blood and a rather unpleasant, yellowish substance. Simon moved for the door.

"Hold on there, Doc."

Jayne wasn't sure exactly why he said it. And Simon certainly had no idea why he obeyed. Tearing off the last bit of bandage that he needed and wrapping it around, Jayne stepped forward.

"Listen, are you . . .y'know. All good?"

Simon shifted a little bit, reaching up to wipe his eyes. He felt uneasy about this. Jayne showing concern for him was not only unheard of – it felt plain unnatural.

"No, Jayne."

He wanted to add something snarky, or condescending onto that, but the words caught in his throat.

Jayne stepped forward again. His thoughts moved to Kaylee. When she had got word that her mama had passed, she'd been inconsolable. Everyone had done their best for her, but it seemed at best to be a losing fight. Then he'd found her outside the engine room. The same damn stoic look on her face. The same streaks running down it. It pained him somethin' fierce, for some reason. That look – like there's something' rotting away at you that you're too stubborn or too tired to even acknowledge. What he'd done then . . .

A final step forward and he was on Simon, his hands reaching out to grasp onto the man's shoulders, gently but determinedly rotating him on the spot. Simon barely had time to process what was going on, and raise his hands up as a sign of protest, before he was being pulled into a tight hug, his face pressing into the unmovable wall that was Jayne's chest.

Neither of them said a word. Simon didn't know what he would say if he could. His hands hovered in the air, not sure what he should do with them, until finally he placed them on Jayne's side. The older man's body was warm. Obviously strong, with a bit of fluff at the midriff from drink and unhealthy eating. He could smell him. A strong, fierce scent. Washed – but unaltered by colognes or deodorants.

He felt his shoulders tense, as his mind fought valiantly with the idea that he was actually being held by Jayne of all people, before finally giving in, allowing himself this moment. He began to break down, his stoicism falling away as he unleashed the pent-up hurt that had been eating away at him for the past three weeks. Jayne did nothing but hold onto him, a massive hand moving up and down the Doc's back. Rubbing it carefully.

Neither of them knew what it was. When it had been Jayne and Kaylee, he'd thought of himself as some kind of older brother. There hadn't been anything in it that wasn't familial. But there was nothing like that between him and Simon. Now . . . now he didn't know what it was.

It was a long while, before Simon was ready to let go. He slid his hands away from Jayne's sides, and looked up at him. And Jayne looked back. Their eyes met, and stayed locked for a moment. Simon's hand moved up, to rest in the center of Jayne's chest, tear-stained now, and he felt Jayne tense a little bit at the touch. He stepped back, separating the contact between them.

He bit his lip, and nodded.

"T-thanks."

And then he left. Jayne moved back to lean against the counter, alone again with his thoughts. Which, at present, were a lot more interesting than they had been.