Guns Are Bad
He's the only one left to talk to. Simon's enamored with Kaylee's enamored with Simon. Captain's busy. Zoe's empty. Inara is sequestered in her shuttle with a client. All he's ever doing is polishing his guns or eating or other things that River can't help but overhear, even from across the ship. (She'd rather not be privy to them, but at least she knows when to stay away.)
The first time she surprises him, he nearly takes her head off, swinging Vera wildly around at the sound of her voice. She flinches away and cocks her head at him.
"Gorrammit, girl, ain't you ever heard o' knockin'? Or better yet, goin' somewhere else?" He growls, as usual, but there's no real malice in him. She remembers what that feels like, sharp and slick and metallic, and tastes the ghost of it on her tongue. But that's all it is, a ghost. What intrigues her most is the absence of fear. Since Miranda his distrust has been ebbing, and for the first time she finds no hint of its chill at all. It pleases her.
"It's open. Can't knock on empty space." She demonstrates, fist bobbing in the air. "It's pointless, makes no sound." She pauses, turning her knuckles toward her face and scrutinizing them intently.
Jayne rolls his eyes. "Well, next time just knock on yer forehead. I right near blew a hole in you with Vera here. 'Course, wouldn't be no skin off my back, but that brother o' yours might not like it much." His fingers run along the shiny metal as he speaks, affectionate.
"Guns are bad," intones River softly, still staring in wonderment at her hand.
"Only if it's someone else holdin' 'em."
She drops her arm suddenly, staring at his face with that disconcerting concentration. "Why do you like guns? They hurt."
"'Swat they're built for, ain't it? That's all they can do. Not like people. People hurt, too, and they gotta whole mess o' other things to pick from. 'Sides, if guns hurt one man, they're protectin' another. You shouldn't think so low of Vera; she's saved your neck a time or two, 's I recall."
She takes two steps closer to him and tilts her head to peer down the barrel, reaching out for the benevolence he speaks of. It's empty, dead.
"Hey, now!" He jerks the weapon away, shaking his head in brisk impatience. "Ruttin' crazy, you are. Tryin' to get yourself shot?"
River pauses, considering. The silence stretches (as it often does) uncomfortably. It seems to follow River around, to lie in wait for her entrance into a room. She's come to relish it, now, even if it exposes her to the soft buzz of thoughts she'd rather not hear. "She didn't save me," she announces finally.
Jayne bristles at the perceived affront. "Now just a gorram minute—"
"There's no soul in there; I looked. No soul means just a puppet, an object. Gun didn't save me. Couldn't. You did." Along comes the silence again, and this time not a whisper of thought disturbs her. Jayne is open-mouthed, like she's stolen the ready speech wrapped around his tongue and hidden it somewhere he can't find. In the recesses of her mind, she hears her name and Simon's questioning voice and turns away. "Gotta go," she says, and leaves, streaming silence in her wake.
