Stealth
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Like the doctors said with such pride, River Tam is a creature of extraordinary grace.
And as dangerous as Jayne Cobb is, he's deadly and he's always been deadly and he'll be deadly till the day he dies and she knows that in her head with the grace that she had even before they made her less than what she was, he's dangerous in a blunt way, broken bones and shattered skulls and he has yet to learn how to kill with a spoon.
Although, and she holds no doubt about this, he'd find it easy enough to do if she ever decided to teach him that particular skill.
He's a light sleeper, had been born that way, and it's a test even for her to slip into the bunk without waking him, barely moving as she slips through shadows, mind already latching onto the feel of what's waiting for her, something that reminds her faintly of Simon, before he began to drown in his guilt over the loss of the sister the Academy killed.
There are other things that feel like the things that are sent by Ma Cobb—the ship when Kaylee speaks to her in the middle of the night, expressing her desire for the drowning doctor; the dinosaurs that decorate Wash's star-lit home, and no one knows that Zoë named one just a few weeks after Wash came aboard, that she spent that whole night watching him with inward pleasure while he played, trembling inside because the Valley had chased her out of her sleep.
The shuttle that Mal stares at for long minutes on end in the middle of the night, pretending he doesn't care while already broken edges crumble more.
But these are things that she can touch, steal from his bunk and wrap herself in, and they offer more warmth than simple objects can. She knows Ma Cobb now more than she ever knew her own mother, knows how the elderly woman sounds while humming in the morning and knows the feel of her hands when checking for a high fever in the night and knows that she can shoot straighter than most men can when you push her to her breaking point.
River knows that she's the person who taught Jayne to use a gun, because someone who can't defend themselves on the Rim is a dead someone and if there's one thing Rosanna Cobb can't bear the thought of, it's burying any of her children but especially not her only boy, big and blue-eyed and harsh around the edges in a beautiful way just like his pa had been.
Rosanna Cobb doesn't like to think too much about how often she's sure her boy gets hurt, even if he goes out of his way not to let her know.
There are blankets and scarves, remnants of harsh winters that Jayne had somehow managed to thrive in, but it's the hats that fascinate River because, beyond being useful and filled with what she craves, they truly are very pretty to look at and pet when no one's watching, stroking small but deadly fingers across soft material.
Jayne is a girls' name, and Jayne wears pretty hats, but he is most definitely male.
Quite an enigma, she must admit.
She pauses twice before making it the bed and then pauses again, knowing that he's awake even though he hasn't moved, even though his breathing hasn't changed and his muscles haven't tightened. There's a knife under his pillow and she lifts one eyebrow, deciding with a nod that if he makes contact with it, she'll let him before she breaks his wrist.
She makes a noise with the next step, letting her dress whisper with an acknowledgement that she knows he's awake as she moves around the bed where his massive form is splayed out, eyes focused on the object tucked between his body and Vera, stilling as she stared down at the three, mercenary and beautiful gun and the hat filled with something she needs more than anything else.
"Don't do nothin' stupid, Crazy."
"Unstable females cannot be held accountable for their actions."
"I'll tell Mal that you've been sneaking into the big, bad merc's bunk in the middle of the night," he snaps back, but she simply grins slightly because they both know who Mal will blame this particular fact on. She tilts her head, ponders for a moment before— "What a big growl you have, big and bad mercenary."
"You got a gorramn death-wish, don't you?"
"I did in the Academy, but not in the Black," she states back, and though he doesn't move, he shifts in her head awkwardly, what he knew and what he doesn't want to know clashing horribly in his mind and if his face wasn't hidden in the pillow, she'd be able to catch the way he frowns at the feel of sympathy for her.
Sympathy, but not pity; pity hurts, slicing at her edges until she's left shaking beneath the silent assault of it.
"This is weird, don't you get that?"
"The girl has always been weird, even before she went to the Academy," she sighs, eyes still on the object she wants so badly, knowing better than to move for it, knowing that the conversation that's happening is important in the way that gravity is, if only on a different level. "High intelligence made her socially unacceptable to socially acceptable parents."
"Stop that!"
"You do not wish to know the girl's history?" She knows the answer already, and doesn't blame him; he likes things simple, and goes out of his way to make the 'verse work that way, not because he's weak or stupid but because people who think too much catch the bullets too easy. It's hard, to think of any person handing their child over to a place like that, and while he knows damn-well that people are capable of it, it's still hard to be forced to see the results walk around day and day.
She doesn't move when he rolls onto his back, tapping his stomach with the flat of the blade, and even in the dim light, they stare at one another easily, blue eyes meeting brown with more intelligence than he lets others onto. It's impossible to make her underestimate him, though, so he rarely tries these days. "It's my hat, it ain't yours."
"But I need it."
"Why?"
"Because—"
"That ain't an answer, Crazy."
"You did not allow me to finish my response," she snaps, and he snorts, flicking the point of the knife in her direction in a slight invitation to go on. "I need the hat because it is small and easy to carry; the blankets are less than practical to carry around, and the scarves can be used too easily to injure me in a fight."
"You been going through my cloths?!"
Her lips twitch but she doesn't break eye contact as his eyes narrow and he sits up a bit more, resting his weight on one elbow as he points the knife at her, almost wordless with fury. "If I find out about any crazy go se you've been doing with 'em, you're a dead Crazy, you got that?!"
"My forays into your cloths are honorable."
He just gives her a look, making her lips twitch again, and he's gone back to tapping the knife against his stomach again, staring at her harder than most of the crew lets themselves. She's vaguely proud of the mark she knows decorates his chest, although she dislikes the reasons behind her pride, and she watches the blade for a moment thoughtfully, knowing the scar better than any wound she's ever dealt anyone else. "You can't be coming into my bunk in the middle of the night, Mal's already cranky enough as it is, you know that."
"But I need—"
"What's your favorite color?"
She pauses, stills, confused for a moment at how sudden he comes to some decision and as much as she tries to skim across his mind, see what it is, she can't, he's locked down tighter than anyone or anything else in the ship, wearing a dark look and a strange frown. "I do not see what that has to do with our conversation."
"If you're as smart as you say you are, you'll answer the gorramn question. Now, little crazy person, what's your favorite color?"
"Blue."
He gives a grunt, short and simple, and with a quick flick of his wrist, he grabs the hat at his side and tosses it at her, looking semi-pleased when she caught it without letting it hit the floor. "Put it on, and get the hell out of my bunk." He rolls over again, sliding the knife under his pillow and his arms under his head, adding more darkly, "And if anything happens to it, you're gonna wish your brother never brought you on this boat, got it?"
It takes her a moment of silent consideration before she grins suddenly, deciding that he's simply taken sympathy on her and cramming the hat down on her head, caressing it tenderly with her fingertips as she adjusts her hair, breathing slowly and steadily at the warmth it spreads through her. "I understand your orders, big, bad mercenary."
"And don't call me that," he growls childishly as she flees his bunk, pleased beyond words at the sense of safety the echoes of Ma Cobb wrapped her in.
