Disclaimer: I don't own it. Everything you recognise belongs to Joss. No infringement
is intended and I'm certainly not making any money from this story.
Summary: Certain things come out into the open.
Author's note: Feedback is, as always, appreciated.


Path to Collision
by Hereswith

Mal and Jayne are in the cargo bay, stacking the crates containing the supplies they've undertaken
to deliver, safe and sound, to a nearby moon, and River wanders towards them, not in a straight
line, but in a waving, unhurried one. Jayne is oblivious to the fact that she's approaching, but Mal
glances briefly in her direction, his gaze taking her in, before he bends down to continue working.

They are about done, when she reaches them, and Jayne stretches his back with a groan, then turns.
"Gorram it!" he exclaims, flinching at the sight of her right behind him. "Ain't nice sneaking up on
a fella like that!"

"Wasn't sneaking," she replies, hopping up to sit perched on top of two of the crates, her legs
dangling. "You didn't look. The captain spotted me."

Jayne casts a questioning glare at Mal, who nods. "Figures," he mutters. "You've been spending
too much time 'round her, Mal."

"Could be that I have," Mal agrees. "Or it's you that's spent too little."

Jayne harrumphs at the notion. "That ain't likely," he says, but the statement isn't so harsh in tone
that it bothers her. He's Jayne and he's becoming used to her, in his fashion. "Well, I'll be off,"
he informs them, patting his stomach. "Going to fix me some grub."

"You do that," Mal says and, as Jayne departs, disappearing into Serenity, leans casually against
a stack of crates, regarding River. "Something you'd care to talk about, is there?"

"I'm better," she tells him. It's how she begins, because that's foremost, that's important. "Clicking
into place."

"So I've noticed," he answers. "Haven't had company in the galley for a long while." Her brow
furrows, and he adds, with a slight chuckle, "Ain't a bad thing. Leastwise one of us is getting
proper rest."

He means to assure her, to erase her sudden frown, but she gleans the shimmer deep beneath the
surface, though it doesn't reflect in his expression, and she says, "I'd ease the nightmares, if I could."

It surprises him a bit, but he soon regains his ground. "That's mighty kind of you, little one, but
I don't reckon you can."

In her mind, she's imagined this conversation a thousand times, playing out the parts, but it wasn't
like this. The cargo bay is lit to brightness and altogether real, as is the captain, with his hair ruffled
and his hands hooked in his gun belt, and she's fluttery with nerves, the ship's gravity might not
hold her. "Can't I, or won't you allow it?"

He grows very still, both on the outside and on the inside, and she can feel, without trying or wishing
to, how he draws back from her again, further than ever before. Far enough that she expects him
to wave her contention aside, or ignore it, and she clenches her fists around the edge of the crate.

When he finally speaks, his voice is firm and even, "You don't know what you're asking, River."

She snaps across, at that, in a surge of temper. "Don't I?" she counters, jumping to the floor, so
that she's standing in front of him. "I'm not innocent. They made that impossible. Opened me up
and stripped me bare to the core. I know."

His posture stiffens. "That don't make it right. More the contrary."

"It isn't wrong," she insists.

"Darlin'," he sighs, exasperated, and it isn't the endearment it might have been, but it's more than
it should have been, if he was unaffected. He straightens and covers the few steps that separate
them. "One day," he says gently, "you'll find the 'verse's bigger than Serenity and you'll leave us
behind." She starts to protest, but he puts a finger over her mouth to shush her and, for a moment,
she's distracted. "I'm old, damaged goods, bao bei. I'm not what you need. Believe me."

She doesn't. She parts her lips, a fraction of a fraction, almost unconsciously, sensation welling
in her at the brush of contact. His eyes narrow, shifting into a darker blue, but he still lowers
his hand.

River releases an unsteady breath. "Have I no say in it?"

He's silent, weighing it. "No."

That single word hurts like a physical pain, a slap that stings her cheek. "Bù gōng. You're worse
than Simon."

He makes a grimace, in obvious distaste at the comparison, but doesn't argue against it. "You're
my pilot," he says. "My crew. While you're on this ship, you're my responsibility, and I'll be
damned to gorram flaming perdition if I break that trust. You've my friendship, for what it's worth,
but I can't offer you more."

"I don't—" She catches herself, with a frustrated toss of her head. "Can't measure the worth,
or calculate it accurately with numbers. You see me. You let me be River, as I am. Always have.
How could I not want more?"

"Others will, same as me, I've no doubt of it," he reasons. "Boys that's your age."

"They won't be you."

He inhales, sharply, but it changes nothing. "I'll not be swayed on this."

She resists the urge to stomp her foot, to yell at him. He won't listen to her now, his determination
pushing at her like a wall, so she twists around, awkward in her anger, and makes for the catwalk.
He doesn't call out her name, and it's only when she's on the stairs, and the absence of it is brought
forcibly home to her, that she realises she's been hoping he would.

Foolish girl. Foolish, foolish man.

She's turned the idea of it over and over in her thoughts, until it's water-washed like a stone, soft
and smooth to the touch, until it fits snug in her palm and makes sense. He won't give in, but she
won't give up.