Chapter 23: In which no one is in bed, like they're supposed to be

It occurred to Simon, as if by divine revelation, that it was dark out. It also occurred to him that he didn't care. Cold and wet and now dark, none of it mattered.  He'd felt earlier that the planet was tilting towards the sun, being sucked in.  But now that he was alone, and had been alone for a good long while, he felt as if the planet was being repelled away from the sun.  Pushed so far away that light wasn't going to reach the small world ever again.  His small world would be forever dark. 

He was sitting on the bank of the small stream.  About two dozen yards south, to his right, was the spot where River had cut herself.  He didn't turn his head to his right.  Another fifty yards north was the small path that led up to the Frye backyard and the house.  There was light in that house, and warmth, and dryness.  He didn't turn his head to the left. 

He just stared ahead, looking into the darkness of the forest.  A part of him wanted to get lost in it, a part of him was afraid to, but most of him was to cold and stiff and morose to move.

It wasn't that he was lost in his thoughts, because he wasn't thinking anything.  He was just so tired, and he just hurt so much. He was a doctor, his stock and trade was finding pain and then finding a way to eliminate it.  But this pain was elusive; it hurt more at every prodding.  The doctor was almost tempted to fish in the stream and find a nice sharp rock and create a wound he could heal, just to reassure himself that such things existed.

But it was getting darker, and he could no longer really see the stream.

                "Simon!"

                For a very brief moment the boy's imagination produced the image of a seductive dryad, a siren, with a sharp rock in her cold and slender hand calling his name.  Then he realized it was Kaylee. 

"Simon!"

                Suddenly, he needed to see her.  The cold dark wetness that had been so comforting had become terrifying.  He was in a strange wood where the streams seduced you and rocks attacked you.  "Kaylee," he said.  His voice was soft and scratchy from lack of use.  He doubted she heard him.

                "Simon!" the girl called again, she was getting closer.  "Ya out here?"

                "Kaylee!" he tried again, with better results.  He tried to stand but before he was truly up, his muscles twisted themselves into cramps and he fell back onto the cold ground with a sharp yelp of pain.

                "Simon!" Kaylee said again, this time less becoming and more worried.  Soon he was blinded in the intolerably bright beam of a flashlight and he could hear her light step running through the undergrowth.  Before his eyes had adjusted to the light, he felt her hand on his shoulder and the sound of her breathing close to his ear.  "Oh, Simon," she said, sniffling a little.  "You ok?  You ain't hurt or nothin' are ya?"

                "I'm fine, Kaylee," he said, reaching out and pushing the flashlight down so it wasn't pointed directly at him.  "I just . . ."

                "Ya fell," Kaylee said quickly.  Her voice was almost panicked.  "I saw.  Can you stand?"

                "I've been sitting here too long," Simon explained. "My leg got a cramp."

                "I can go get the Captain," Kalyee said, moving to stand up and run to the house.  "Or Jayne, they could –"

                "Kaylee," Simon said quickly, reaching out and grabbing her arm.  "No, I'll be fine.  Just, could you help me?"

                "Sure," the girl said, nodding.  "What you want me to do?"

                "Let me put my arm over your shoulder," Simon said, reaching out and maneuvering her so she was kneeling down right next to him.  "Now, I'm going to try to stand and you stand with me.  I'll probably lean on you, so be sure to lift yourself up with your legs, not your back.  I don't want you to hurt yourself."

                "'Kay," Kaylee said, switching the flashlight to her left hand so she could wrap her right hand around Simon's waist as he put his left arm over her shoulder.  "Just tell me when you're ready."

                "All right," Simon said, taking a deep breath.  "Now."

                Kaylee stood up and more or less pulled Simon with her.  "You okay?" she asked, once she felt him depending more on his own strength to stand and leaning on her a little less.

                "Fine," he said, although his voice was thin and tense.  "Now, if we could just walk a little."

                "We should get you someplace warm," Kaylee said wisely.  "It's sitting out here in the cold that's done it."

                "I know," Simon said, struggling to keep his feet under him as both legs screamed in pain. "But if I keep walking they'll go away."

                "Really?"  Kaylee asked lightly, as if they were sitting in Serenity's common room shooting the breeze and not trudging through the forest in the rain.  Simon marveled at how she made hard things feel easy. 

                "'Cause, ya see," she continued.  "My uncle Markie said that the only way ta get rid of a cramp was ta sleep with your shoes under the bed, but his wife Leslie she swears up and down that pickle juice is the only thing ta use."

                "Pickle juice?"  Simon asked.

                "Um-hum," Kaylee nodded.

                "Does she rub it on the inflamed area or drink it?"

                "Either way it's gross," Kaylee said.  "I never tried neither."

                "I don't blame you."

                The conversation ended there.  They walked for a while in silence before Kaylee shifted towards their left.  "We're here," she said.

                "Here?" Simon asked.

                "Just gotta climb this hill," Kaylee said, pointing her flashlight to a rise in the undergrowth which, Simon supposed, must have looked like a path to her.  "Then we're home."

                "Home," he said. 

All the foreboding he felt about being in a warm place where people were happy and laughing must have, somehow, worked its way into his voice because Kaylee turned and looked at him compassionately, and said, "You don't wanna go in, do you?"

"I," he stuttered, surprised by her insight.  "I, ah . . . I don't . . . I certainly wouldn't . . ."

"Simon," Kaylee interrupted.  Her voice was serious and caring and pleading him to be honest.  "Why were you out here?  In the cold?"

                "I didn't want to be warm," he admitted, a little surprised at his answer.  "I don't think . . . I mean, I can't . . . I feel cold, no matter where I am.  I feel frozen."  He glanced down at her.  In the dimness, she looked even softer than usual and he couldn't see the irises in her eyes.  As he stared into them, words he'd had no intention of saying seemed to flow out of his mouth, he barely knew he was speaking and he wouldn't have been able to stop, even if he had.

                "When I left everything, left the first time, I didn't really, I didn't realize how it was . . . how permanent it was.  I knew, maybe, I can't . . . I'm not sure I'm remembering clearly.  But my last day of work, I didn't sit and think, 'this is the last chart I'll ever read' or 'this is the last time I'll talk to a patient' or 'this is the last time I'll close my locker.'  None of that  . . . I didn't have time, I-- I didn't know to think that way.

                "But today was the last time I'll ever see my parents.  It was the last time I'll ever see my godfather.  Any hopes I had far fetched and fantastic as they were, of going back . . . they were crushed.  Last time I didn't, I didn't really turn away from anything, I was . . . it was about River.  This time it wasn't.  I wasn't swept up in events that I didn't understand. I wasn't propelled by brotherly devotion. I wasn't ignorant or helpless.  I made a choice.  I chose this life over them.  I said goodbye, and I meant it."

                Kaylee blinked, breaking the spell a little, and looked down.  Simon took a shaky breath and turned away.  "I'm sorry," he said after a minute.  "I didn't mean to tell you all that."

                "No," Kaylee sniffled.  "No, it's ok."  She gasped for breath and reached up to wipe her eyes with the back of her right hand, sending the flashlight's beam wildly off into the treetops above them.

                "You're crying," Simon observed, a little surprised. 

                "It's sad," Kaylee defended.  She turned to look at him and forced a smile despite her tears.  "Can't help but cry a little."

                Simon smiled down at her. "You are incredibly sweet."

                Even in the darkness, he could see her blush.  There was something about this planet, he concluded, something that made her cheeks look rosier and her eyes brighter and her hair softer and her lips more inviting.  He'd always thought she was pretty but it seemed that every time he saw her she became prettier and prettier.  On Osiris, he was used to beautiful girls who would spend hours on their hair and makeup, and brilliant girls who demanded attention by being better and smarter, but he hadn't had much interactions with girls like Kaylee who were just pretty and smart.  Everything about her, not just the way she looked, but the way she talked and giggled, the words she used and the jokes she told and the way her eyes turned into slits when she laughed and the way she'd chew on her lower lip if she did something wrong, seemed different, seemed better.  The more Simon was with her, the more distasteful he found the overindulgences of the beautiful or brilliant women he was so used to.  They tried so hard to be something special when Kaylee was everything special without even trying.

Without thinking, Simon reached out and cupped her chin with his right hand.  Her fathomless eyes seemed to smile up at him through her tears.  He leaned forward and his rough, chapped lips brushed against her supple, delicate ones and he could taste her breath, heavy with the aroma of peach pie.

Simon pulled away, for a second, a motion that brought reality crashing down on him.  He was a cold person, a hard person, a gray and dreary person.  She was warm, soft, colorful and full of light and life.  He needed her to melt away all his frozen parts, to smooth out his sharp edges, to bring light and laughter into him.  She was everything he wasn't and he wanted her to seep into him and change him so that he could be everything he wasn't too.  He leaned forward again, and this time their lips met more unfalteringly, more passionately.  He felt like Kay in 'The Snow Queen'; his Greda had come and the splinter of glass perverting his vision was washed away and each kiss brought more warmth, more color, more life until he was thawed enough to be his own man. 

Simon closed his eyes, savoring ever second they touched.

So when she pulled away, he was more then let down, he felt like he'd been dropped.  H looked down and turned away, not bothering to open his eyes.  "I'm . . . I didn't mean—"

                "Simon," Kaylee interrupted him, reaching over and pulling his face towards her.  He didn't resist and found himself once more staring into her enchanting eyes.  "It's all right," she assured him.  "Let's go someplace warmer and drier."

                "I'll follow you," he promised.

                She smiled at him, biting on her lower lip and scrunching her nose into an adorable accumulation of wrinkles.  Her hand slipped off from around his waist and found his hand.  As she started pulling him up the hill, into her yard, Simon didn't worry that she would force him into the bright house where the party was just beginning to die down, nor did he notice that the cramp in his leg was still screaming in pain.  All he cared to notice was the loving tugs she continued to give his hand and all he could think of was the lingering taste of peach pie in his mouth.

*   *   *

It was late, well past supper time, but supper had been missed on account of no one seeming the least inclined to eat.  Genie had disappeared, most likely into the solitary depths of her closet, leaving her grandfather feeling very much alone.  He sorely wanted to go into his office, lock the door, and lose his sorrows in a bottle of scotch, but he knew that wouldn't help matters any.  So instead he went, with squared shoulders and a set jaw, to the guest wing where Gabriel and Regan were packing, preparing to go back to Osiris.

"Come in," Gabriel barked after Comworth had knocked on the door.  He didn't sound like he wanted company.

Still, the governor pushed open the door and walked into the suite's sitting room.  Gabriel was slouched in an arm chair, staring into the crackling fire in the room's hearth, a decanter of brandy and a half empty glass in his hand.

"Where's Regan?" he asked from the door.

"Crying in the bathroom," Gabriel grunted.  "It's probably the only thing she'll do for the next month.  That's what she did when Simon left before."

"It's for the best, you know."  The governor said, walking over to the liquor cabinet and getting a brandy glass for himself.  "Of all the places they could be . . ."

"What happened?" Gabriel said.  He sounded dazed and only slightly drunk.

                "They found a safe place," Comworth said, easing himself down in a chair beside his old friend and helping himself to the deep red and highly alcoholic beverage.

                "We did everything right," Gabriel said.  "We loved them so much.  I . . . I only ever wanted them to be happy."

                "I know," Comworth said.

                "The Secretary of Education said it was the best school for a child like River, that she would blossom there."

                "I know."

                "Simon loved his work.  He--he really did."

                "I know."

                "We weren't bad parents," Gabriel said.  "If I had really thought for a minute that  . . ."

                "You were good parents," Comworth assured his friend.  "You loved your children."

                "Why didn't I believe Simon?" his father said.  "This could have been over.  We could have pulled her out of the school.  He could be a successful doctor, she could have . . ."

                "It's not you fault," Comworth said.

                "What kind of father assumes his son is crazy?" Gabriel said, turning away from the fire towards his friend for the first time.  He was ghostly pale and his eyes were red.

                "The kind that trusts his government," Comworth said.  "Until Dr. Westland showed us those scans, I didn't really believe the boy myself."

                "But you treated him a hell of a lot better than I," Gabriel said bitterly.  "My son, my only son, and the last memories he has of me are of me angry, distrustful, condemning."  

                "He knows you love him," Comworth said.  "If he didn't, do you think it would have pained him so much to leave?"

                "And River, damn it," Gabirel continued.  "I didn't love her enough to come for her.  I get hardly a word, nothing but official reports and I don't worry, don't wonder.  What kind of father am I?"

                "You were doing the best you could."

                "The best I could," Gabriel spat.  "The best I could do was send my daughter to get her brain cut on, and abandon my son so he had to give up everything just to save her.  That was my best.  With that kind of record I'm a shoe-in for father of the year."

                "Gabriel, stop blaming yourself," Comworth pleaded.  "You couldn't have known."

                "Simon knew," Gabriel said.  "He knew, he told me and I didn't listen."

                There was nothing Comworth could think to say to that, so he stayed silent.   

                "Damn it!" Gabriel spat, when the silence became too heavy.  "I wanted to give them everything.  They were, they are, so incredible.  I don't think they ever understood.  I mean, they knew they were smart.  But I'd bet not one doctor in the whole city was as dedicated to his patients as Simon.  He'd come home and that's all he'd talk about.  He was single-minded, relentless. Every procedure was done perfectly.  He said that these were peoples' lives he worked with, anything less than perfection was an insult to humanity."

                Comworth smiled, "That's from the speech he gave at medacad commencement."

                "He believed it.  How many doctors care about their patients like that, how many of them see their patients as humans? Gei ji ren zhi ren dao. "

                "Simon was an amazing doctor," Comworth said with a sigh.

                "You know he volunteered to work the late shift because that's when people got the poorest care.  He . . . he liked the social prestige, he liked the money, but he didn't really care about it.  How many damn doctors can that be said of?"

                "Not many," Comworth admitted.

                "And River," Gabriel continued.  "How could anyone like her understand what she was?  There's no precedent for her, but she couldn't help but think she was normal.  Everyone thinks what they are is normal; everyone assumes that what they do is good and right and what any rational person would do.

                "I assumed I was a good parent. I assumed that my wonderful children were my reward for being such a wonderful parent."

                "That's not how it works," Comworth said levelly, although the brandy was starting to make him feel a little warm and less bereaved.  "Life sometimes . . ."

                "I don't have children anymore," Gabriel said.  "They left.  I drove them away.  That's my punishment."

                "You can't think that way, Gabriel," Comowrh said a little more insistently. 

                "I drove away Regan's children," Gabriel said, his voice wavering mournfully.  "She was such a good mother.  They adored her.  River would follow her around, mimic everything she did.  Simon was so dedicated to her; he would have done anything for her.  You know, when he was eight he planted a garden just so he could give her flowers."

                "I know."

                "It went horribly.  He didn't like getting dirty."

                Comworth laughed.  "I know."

                "God," Gabriel said.  He was taking heaving breaths as he tried not to cry.  "I loved them.  Maybe not well, maybe not enough, but, still, I loved them both so much.  As best as I could, as best as I knew how to."

                "I know that, Gabriel," Comworth said.  "Simon and River know that too."

                "How could they?" Gabriel sniffed.  "What evidence did I ever show?"

                "There were thousands of things, little things, you did for them as they were growing up," Comworth said.  "You let River stay up late so she could go to the ballet as a child, and when she grew older, you let her perform in it.  You gave Simon a real stethoscope on his seventh birthday when most fathers would have given toys.  They will always love you; you are their father."

                "But," Gabriel said, shaking his head.  "They left.  River said loving was coming.  Leaving must be hating."

                "You're drunk," Comworth said, not judgmentally.  "The only loving thing to do was to let them go.  I understand it hurts right now.  Damn it, it feels like someone's reached in your chest, garbed your heart and ripped it to shreds.  I know."

                "They weren't your children," Gabriel said, almost angrily.

                "I lost children," Comworth continued, his voice rising as he spoke.  "Need I remind you what happened to Genie's mother?  Or how about Meredith, my wife?  I know.  My happy family is dead. You should be glad yours isn't.  They may be gone, but they are alive."

                "That's true," Gabriel said, properly rebuked.  "You're absolutely right.  I should be glad.  But I miss them, I will miss them."

                "They will miss you," Comworth said.  "How could they not?  You're their father."

*   *   *

                Mal didn't know why he couldn't sleep.  His crew was safe and accounted for, his ship was fueled and ready to take off in the morning, his stomach was filled with good food and hardy liquor.  But he couldn't rest, there was an itch in the back of his mind, an unquestionable and nervous certainty that there was something out of place.  His mind skimmed over every detail of the day, every word with the people in the villa, every look and every movement.  But Mal knew what it felt like to be hunted, and the uneasiness in his mind wasn't a bit like that.  It was more a feeling that something was lost or hadn't been put away.

                Restless, and without the hope of getting rest until his mind was at ease, Mal tossed off his covers and started pulling on his boots. 

                Ten minutes later, he was wandering Sweet Well, heading more or less towards Serenity.  He planed to check the ship from stem to stern and make sure everything was where it should be and he was considering going through Inara's shuttle too, looking for anything suspect, a bug, a tracer, anything.  He knew that wasn't what bothered him but doing something was a hell of a lot better than lying in bed and worrying.

                It was still cold out, but the rain had stopped and a full moon was casting a silvery light over the whole of the quiet town.  There was a time in his life when he would have stood for a moment and appreciated the chilled beauty of the scene, but that time was long past.  Now he was suspicious of the moon; its light created hundreds of shadows for enemies to hide in and offered him no aid as he walked down the street. 

                He didn't breathe any easier as he stepped out of the edge of town and onto the field were Serenity and a half a dozen other spaceships were docked.  The shadows were bigger, the light seemed brighter and regardless how safe Mal knew he was, he couldn't keep his mind from envisioning a half a dozen ambush scenarios and how he could, with luck and skill, get out of them.

                The closer he got to Serenity, the more assured Mal felt that he wasn't alone. When he reached the ramp he saw his feeling was well founded.  There was movement in the shadows that covered the hatch door and the sobs of a very young girl were clearly audible.  Relief washed over Mal like a flood.  He'd known something was wrong, as far as wrong things went, River being off her nut was one he thought he could pretty well handle.

                "Hey there, little bit," he called at the sniffling shadow.  "This ain't where you're supposed to be."

                "I know," she said, looking up at him through the shadows.  The only part of her truly visible was the whites of her eyes.  "The door is locked."

                "Your brother know you're here?"

                "He forgot.  Kaylee's helping him remember."

                "Huh," Mal grunted.  "He's with Kaylee?  Well, that explains it." Turning back to River he said,  "But that don't explain why you're out here."

"It's wrong to pick locks.  Bad things happen when you do wrong things."

                "Tell me you ain't here to punish yourself," Mal said, his sense of dread spiking.

                "I wanna go home," River muttered.  "To many people are whispering."

                Mal looked at her bewildered for a second, then he smiled kindly.  Reaching out to her, he said,  "Come on shao nu, let's go back."

                River whimpered softly and turned away.

"Come on," Mal urged, holding his hand out insistently.

                Reluctantly, River reached out and took the Captain's hand.  Mal was surprised by how small and delicate it was, not that he had expected it to be large and rough, but the girl was so odd that Mal sometimes forgot that she was, in fact, a girl.  "You should be in bed," he said, pulling her to her feet and out of the shadows.  "It's late and tomorrow –"

                "I can sleep tomorrow," River said.  "Tomorrow I'll be home.  All the voices will be whispering but I'll be able to pretend I don't hear them.  But when it's quiet, I can't help but hear."

                "What you doin' up so late and out of bed?" Mal asked, gently leading the girl away from Serenity and back towards the Frye house.

                "The moon doesn't whisper," River answered, leaning back as she walked so she could gaze at the bright white orb.  "She sings like silver bells at Christmas time."

                "You're not gonna make a dollop of sense tonight, are ya?"  Mal sighed.

                River shifted, looking from the moon to him, "I'm not a very good daughter," she said sadly.  "I'm sorry."

                "What?" Mal asked, he couldn't keep his voice from squeaking.

                "Kaylee is so good," River said, her voice filled with admiration.  "She can cook, and fix things and make people happy.  She makes everybody happy.  She's a good daughter."

                "I . . . I suppose," Mal said uncomfortably.  "I know her daddy loves her."

                "And Simon," River continued with the same hero-worshiping tone, "He's a good son.  He's so smart and brave.  And he's a doctor.  A doctor is always useful," she laughed. "Who wouldn't want a doctor?"

                "I'm sure your father . . ." Mal started weakly.

                "But I'm not like them," River continued.  "I don't know how to be good, how to be useful.  I don't know how to make you proud."

                "What?" Mal asked again.  "Me proud?"

                River nodded at him, her brown eyed seemed deeply sorrowful and her voice was barely above a whisper.  "But you still come, every time.  You're such a good father."

                "Father?!" Mal gasped.  "River, I ain't," he cleared his throat.  "I ain't your father."

                "I know," River said, bowing her head.  Her voice trembled, like she was about to cry. "But mine didn't come.  And he'll never come again.  And you always come, always."

                Mal had to admit that she had a valid argument.  "That may be true, fact is, it is true.  But 'cause I'm willing to come for you when you need me, that don't make me your father."

                "Doesn't it?" River asked with a somewhat superior tone, as if she knew the answer and it was Mal who was confused.

                "No," Mal insisted.  "It don't."

                "Oh," River said softly.  Then she nodded and bowed her head, dejected.

                Mal literally bit his tongue and a string of vile curses ran through his mind.  As if the girl's day hadn't been hard enough, he'd topped it off with more rejection.  "Look," he said after a moment.  "I ain't your father.  You only got one and it's not my place to take you away from him."

                "But you did," River pointed out.

                "I did," Mal said, a little deflated. He took a deep breath and continued passionately. "Don't change the fact that he's your father.  Nothin' in the 'verse can change that, and you know it."

                River nodded dolefully.

                "But," Mal added, softening his voice.  "I am your captain. And that means I am gonna come for you, whenever you need me.  Understand?"

                River turned and looked at her captain.  Her lips were pressed together and looked almost white.  Her eyes were large kept darting from right to left and up and down, never truly focusing on him.  "But I don't do anything," River protested.  "I know I'm a problem. I know I'm dangerous and I don't know how not to be."

                "That don't concern me over much," Mal confessed.  "I know you try your best.  That's enough."

                "But I can't . . ." River began.

                "Look, shao nu" Mal said, with more patience than he'd been able to accumulate for any human for a good many years.  "This ain't about you, what you can do and what you can't.  You don't got to earn your way onto the ship.  I made a decision that, maybe, had a little to do with your brother and his skills with a scalpel, but mostly it had to do with the fact that you two needed someone to look after you."

                River nodded, smiling a little, like he was finally getting the point.  "We need a father."

                "No," Mal said, shaking his head.  "You got one a them already and, not to make you fell bad, but he didn't do all that much for you.  Not when it counted.  Another father ain't gonna help matters."

                "You won't be a father," River nodded, the concept finally sinking into her pretty little head.  "It's not your job."

                "I will be your captain," Mal promised her.  "I'll look after you, make sure your done right by and see that no harm comes to you.  That's part of a captain's job."

                River pressed her eyes shut as a bittersweet smile spread across her face.  "Thank you, Captain."

                Mal took a deep breath and let it out, relieved.  "Glad we got that settled."

                River nodded mutely.

                They walked a few more steps in silence.  Mal found the silence thick and oppressive.  He liked it when River chattered; it let him think of her as a normal girl, the sweet normal girl that she wanted to be.  He always tied to think of people they way they wanted to be thought of, for Mal it was a sort of watered down version of the golden rule.  It was why he stodgily ignored all Book's odd un-Shepherd like behaviors.  If the old man wanted to be thought of as a kindly preacher, so long as it did no one any harm, Mal didn't see the fault in keeping up the farce. 

"Ya all right?" he asked, breaching the silence.

                River turned and smiled at him sweetly. 

"Ice cold fear retreats each time you speak

Still there is no true shelter from the war

Death will find me even in your keep

Usurp the grand protection, which you swore

Would light my way through darkness deep

And shatter screams of their false lore

Tormenting me awake and in my sleep

As they whisper to me what's in store.

Impotent hero, can not conquer the vile

Yet content am I to sit with you and wait

For your heart is noble and your manner mild

Your arm is strong and your courage great

So like Hector's son, the guiltless child

I seek comfort, though I know my fate,"

she told her captain in such an innocent and childish voice that it sounded almost like a nursery rhyme.

                "Well," Mal said uncertainty, he wasn't quite sure if that poem was a complement or an insult. 

                "I wouldn't want any other captain," River said, leaning over so her head was resting on his shoulder, even though they were still walking through the town, the Frye's house having just come into view. 

                Mal felt an odd constriction in his throat.  He didn't like it.  He cleared his throat and squared his shoulders, actions which didn't affect River's affectionate stance in the least.  "It's late," he said very officially.  "Long past time for you to be in bed."

                River whimpered a little and clung to him even tighter.  "Last night it killed me," she insisted with sheer innocent, terror.  "It bit in and chewed and spat me out.  Please, I can't sleep in the darkness again."

                "River," Mal said rationally.  "The darkness didn't eat you."

                "I know," River insisted.  "It spit me out."

                "If it killed you then how come you're alive now?"

                River didn't have an answer for that, her brow furrowed and her lips pouted as she tried to make her experiences fit with what she knew had to be reality.  It was always a difficult task and made her head ache.

                "You're sleepy," Mal said in response to her silence.  "I'll see you to bed."

                Mal led the way into and through the silent Frye house, River followed obediently.  Because he didn't know where else to take her, he opened the door to his room and ushered her in.  "Just plop down on the bed there," he instructed.  "Be sure to take your boots off."

                River nodded and did as she was told.  Once the large black combat boots had dropped to the floor and the girl had curled under the covers, Mal moved to the door. 

                "Stop," River whimpered.

                "What was that?" Mal asked, pausing as he reached for the doorknob.

                "It'll come again tonight," The girl said, peering up at him through the rumpled quilt he'd thrown over her.  "Please don't leave me alone."

                Mal turned and looked at her.  She was too old, he thought, to be afraid of the dark.  But her eyes were filled with real terror and her voice had an unmistakably desperate tone to it.  It might have been indulgent to turn around and give her her way, but it would have been cruel to leave her alone with whatever monsters were in her head.  Mal turned and pulled a well-worn wooden chair out of the corner and up to the bed.  "I'll sit here 'till you're asleep."

                "You're a good captain," River said with a yawn.

                Mal smiled down at her.  "Shut your eyes, shao yang nu," he told her.  "I'm right here.  Ain't nothin' ta fear."

To be continued . . .