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Firefly: All the World's a Stage

Chapter 2: Pain

Part II

She didn't know how long she'd slept, or if she'd even slept at all.

She was in that state between sleep and alertness. Between one world and another. She moved her body, but felt outside it. Her body weightless, while her spirit carried the weight of worlds. She could see her cabin – its walls, the sheets of her bed, how crumpled the blankets were after more restless nights she could count. In her mind's eye, she was home.

And yet she wasn't. There was no sense of smell, no sense of touch. Sight, even through sleep-deprived eyes, was her only sense available to her now. The world was silent, without feeling. As she lay there against her bed, a tear slid down her cheek. But she smelt nothing. Felt nothing. Even the being that was growing inside her…it wasn't here, in this dream world. Very soon, she would be a mother. But linked as she was to her child, her mind was still her own. Her baby couldn't follow her to this place. This dream world. This cage.

"Hoban Washburne, I will never forgive you for making me do this alone," she whispered.

More silence. More nothing. Then-

"I'm here."

She sat up against her bed, descending further into the dream. Where reality was an intruder, kept on its own side of the bars. The cage still existed, but she had a cell mate.

"Wash…"

The one who could never follow her into the waking world. The one who would not be there when she woke up. He was seated there, at the desk they'd sometimes use, holding the flight stick. Looking at her. Smiling at her. Smiling as only a ghost could.

"Hello Zoë," he whispered.

His blue eyes. His sandy blonde hair. His pale skin. The way he carried himself. The way he held the stick, as if connected to his body, as her baby was to hers. But more than anything, it was his smile that told Zoë that this was Hoban Washburne. The smile that could put any among the living at ease. The smile that had been there for her every day, whether dirtside or in the depths of space.

"I need your help Wash," Zoë whispered.

The smile faded, and he turned away. He was facing a wall, but the ghost of Hoban Washburn was still flying. "You've never needed help with anything."

"I need your help with this." She leant back against her pillow, rubbing her eyes. She was sleeping, but not so deep in sleep that she wasn't aware of that. She somehow felt tired within her own dream. But not so tired that she couldn't give her husband one last glance.

"Will you stay?" she whispered.

"You know what I'm gonna say." Wash kept flying. The dream kept moving. The bars began to lift.

"Don't say it," Zoë pleaded. She struggled to move, but couldn't – the dream was changing. The light of her room was turning a shade of red. She was a prisoner once again. "Not again."

The ghost turned to look at her. Himself a shade of red. The same red that had shone when the cockpit's emergency light had activated after their landing on Siren.

"I am a leaf on the wind," the ghost said.

"No!" Zoë reached out an arm. She couldn't see this again. Not after it had played out so many times in her mind.

"Watch how I-"

She saw it happen. The spike coming out of the darkness, as it had done on Siren. Wash impaled where he sat. It had killed him instantly on that day. And in her dreams, even ghosts could die.

She struggled to break free, but the blankets wouldn't let her. They kept her strapped in. Surrounded her. Choking her. They twisted and turned, and she could feel them. Drenched in…blood? No, sweat. Taking her down into the abyss. She screamed. She roared. And Wash sat there, impaled.

Taken away from her again.

Again and again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

And-

"No!"

The bars were broken, as had her water. Her stomach felt like her skin had turned into rock. Rock that could still feel pain, as one jolt of pain followed after another. Just breathing was turning into a chore, each breath more ragged than the last. She pressed her hands against her stomach, against the bulging thing that was inside her.

"Oh no," she whispered.

It was coming. Nine months on, and it was finally coming.

"Mal," she rasped. She'd tried to shout, but her breath was too shallow. The pain…it was like an ocean. In and out, with the flow of the tide. One that carried rocks, tearing apart her flesh, letting salt and sand fill the wounds.

"Mal!" She managed to shout this time. There was no answer though. She stumbled across the floor, feeling the chill of the ground touch her feet, and spread through her body, even as sweat covered it. Moisture on her skin, and moisture growing in one very specific place. Extending one arm forward, she managed to grab hold of the ladder that led out of her bunk. She tried pulling herself up…

And couldn't. As she lifted herself upwards, her body felt dragged down. As if the ship's artificial gravity had increased tenfold. She gritted her teeth, sweat flowing from every pore like a river. Gritted, and tried again. One foot got onto the first rung, and the second…didn't. She fell. Fell, just she'd done for nine months. Fell, where her husband would have soared. Only reaching out and grabbing a rung prevented her from falling down onto the floor.

I can't do this.

She lay there, hanging in space. One hand on the ladder rung, the other grabbing the ledge of oblivion. To let go…if not for another jolt of pain that ran through her, she might have. But there was no escape for her.

"Zoë?"

None but the hatch that opened up above. With the heads of Mal and Inara looking down. Given how little they were wearing, she was left to wonder if there might be another baby on this ship at some point.

"It's coming."

The look on their faces said it all. And for but a moment, the pain was gone. As Mal climbed down the ladder. As he helped her get up. As she took Inara's hand. As she looked back at the bed, its sheets moist, its mattress compressed from the body of a single occupant…

She shivered. Inara asked her if she was alright. She remained silent.

The pain was there again.

Or maybe it had never left.

She was back in Serenity's infirmary.

How many times had she been here? Not as many as Mal, granted, given how often bullets seemed to find him, but still more times than she could count. And that was only dealing with the times she'd been treated for her own injuries. If she had to account when she'd had to play doctor before Simon Tam came along, then the number of times she'd been here was probably greater than the number of planets in the 'Verse. Heck, maybe even its moons.

But she was here. Not for a wound delivered from an external source, but for the thing that was struggling to get out of her. A thing she was quite happy to help along, but try as she might, just couldn't. She yelled. She screamed. She took one breath after another, gave one push after another (why was it called "pushing" in this context? Wouldn't "squeezing" be more accurate?), but nothing happened. Nothing moved. She just lay there, feeling the pain spread through her, one jolt after another. Enough to make her wish she was being treated for another bullet wound. Least that was done faster, and gave her a nifty scar to show off to people.

"Come on," said Inara. "You're doing great."

That's a lie and you know it. She nonetheless did try to "come on," with another push/squeeze/whatever, along with another yell, another trickle of sweat, and a whole lot of nothing in her vagina – least as far as results went. The 'something' that was there…that wasn't budging.

God damn it, where are you Simon?!

Half the ship was already here. Inara was doing her best to comfort her, dampening her forehead with a cloth, while also cleaning up around the end of the bed. Mal was firmly holding her hand, just as he had back in the war. Just as she'd held his when the time had called for it. And River? River Tam was just standing there in the corner, head tilted to the side, not saying a word. Watching as if she'd never seen a baby be born before (which she hadn't, as far as Zoë was aware).

Where are you?! She screamed again, as her offspring refused to budge. As the pain went through one end of her body to another, as if she'd been impaled from the waist down. She groaned, and leant her head on her side, not caring about what Inara was saying as she applied the cloth.

You should have been here Wash. Shoulda been here. Shoulda-

"Sorry, I'm here!"

She moved her head upwards so she could see who'd just come in. Not that she needed to – she recognised the voice – but seeing was believing. Right now, she saw Kaylee Frye come in with Simon Tam taking the lead. Simon, who was still putting his shirt on.

Better that than your pants I suppose.

"Oh boy, oh boy," Kaylee said. "Oh golly, it's happening."

Shut up Kaylee!

She managed to avoid saying that out loud. Besides, as she screamed again, she knew she couldn't have uttered those words anyway.

"I'm right here Zoë," Mal said, slightly tightening his grip on her hand. "Not going anywhere."

Part of her was grateful for that. But only part. It should have been her husband who was here. Her husband wouldn't say that. Wash would have told her he loved her. Wash wouldn't have needed to say that he wouldn't be going anywhere, because the thought would have never entered his mind. And yet…

You left Wash.

Wash was gone.

You left me.

"Alright," Simon said, putting on some gloves before walking over to the end of the bed. He lifted up her gown to look at her…opening (she didn't feel like naming it right now). "Let's see…oh."

Oh? What oh?

Simon didn't say anything. Mal and Inara remained in place, but Zoë saw Kaylee and River come over, to stare at her…thing, Kaylee put a hand to her mouth.

"Oh my," she said. "That's…holy mackerel…"

Holy what?

"This is very exciting," River said blankly.

Lìng rén xīngfèn, yěxǔ, fēngkuáng de nǚhái!

She screamed again. The girls recoiled. Simon recoiled. The pain came back. Laughing at her. Twisting the knife in her belly. In her gut. In her heart. Pain was the player, and the people around her were mere spectators. Watching the emergence of a life they'd played no part in creating.

"Alright," said Simon, going over to one of the cupboards. "I'm going to need-"

"Everybody. Out."

Five pairs of eyes looked at her.

"Out," Zoë wheezed – it was getting harder to talk. Harder to breathe.

"Zoë, I don't-"

"I said get out!" she yelled, her words turning into yet another scream. "I…I…" She took a gasp. And another. "I…Simon. Just Simon."

"I…" The elder Tam's eyes said one thing, but his mouth said something else. "I think you should go."

"Simon?" Mal asked. "If you're saying-"

"If this helps Zoë, then some privacy might be for the better," he said. He turned to look at Kaylee, giving her hand a squeeze. "It's alright Kay. Trust me."

Zoë turned away. She didn't want either of them to see her eyes turn green.

"Sure…sure…" Mal said. He put an arm over Inara, leading her out, taking River and Kaylee with him. "Doctor, if you need somethin'-"

"You'll be the first to know." Zoë saw him give the captain his smile – the type of smile that only men like Simon Tam, educated in Capital City, Osiris, could give. The smile that silenced her captain, and got everyone to leave the room.

She screamed again – the contractions were happening faster now. And with every one of them came pain. The same pain. Pain could come from any source, but it felt the same in the end. Her body's way of telling her that "hey, you're being hurt, do something!" Only she could do nothing now. In a war, she could fight. Here? This wasn't a war. It was barely even a battle.

"Alright," Simon said. He went back down to the end of the bed and lifted up her skirt, sighing. "Holy mackerel indeed."

"Didn't think…fish…were holy…" Zoë wheezed.

Simon chuckled. "Don't think they are either." He stood up again. "But we'll show them." He went back to the cupboards.

She smiled – the joke was terrible, but she appreciated it. Appreciated what Simon was trying to hide from her, albeit failing.

"Simon…"

He looked at her from the cupboards.

"I just want to say…thank you."

"Zoë, I haven't delivered-"

"No, I mean…" She took a breath. "I mean…since you've been here…all the stuff you did over the years…don't think ever…thanked you…"

"You took me and my sister in," he said, his gaze firm, his eyes far away. "You don't need to thank me for anything."

"Maybe not…but…thank you." She winced – another contraction. Not as painful as the ones before, but still there. Still eating her from the inside out. "I…I mean…"

"I know you want Wash to be here."

She looked up at him. Eyes blurry. Eyes blazing.

"He should be here," Simon said. "Saying that won't change that, but…Wash. Book." He frowned. "Jayne, even. They should be here."

Zoë looked away. The words were true, but she didn't want to hear them. Because for nine months, she'd told herself the same thing.

"Alright," said Simon. "Now this is going to hurt-"

You think?!

"…but I need you to push."

Zoë shot him a glare. One that he didn't see because his gaze was back on her vagina, and the piece of holy mackerel coming out of it.

Lord help me if I give birth to a fish.

But regardless, she pushed.

And like she had on a planet called Angel all those years ago, screamed.

How long had they been here?

She'd fired. He'd watched. The bottles were gone. The cans were gone. The birds had never come back. The shuttle was waiting for them.

How long had they been here?

Zoë handed the rifle back to her father. He imparted no words as he unloaded it before slinging the weapon over his shoulder. Before gesturing to his daughter to follow him back to the shuttle – their vessel to the stars, and more specifically, the Torres.

How long had they been there?

By her reckoning, thirteen years. Fourteen years since Joseph Alleyne had done some straight shooting, and thirteen years since she'd been brought out into the world, screaming. Thirteen years of her mother dragging her off to hydroponics class, and her father doing little apart from teaching her how to use a wrench, or in occasions such as this, shoot. Barely talking. Barely saying anything.

"Dad?"

Though at least listening, as demonstrated when he looked back at her.

"You think one day you'll have to use that?"

She didn't need to point to the rifle to make him understand.

"Maybe," he said. He began heading back to the shuttle.

"Maybe, maybe, maybe," she parroted. "What's that line Captain Zakiyuddin had? 'Say maybe, and maybe I'll help you a bloody nose?'"

Her father didn't say anything.

"Come on, dad. You really think-"

"I think that things are going to get worse. I think the Alliance is going to keep trying to get more control beyond the Core. I think that's going to piss people off. And I don't think things are going to get better before they get worse. And if things get worse, then, well…" He looked at Zoë. "You have any idea what a war is like? A full-blown, interplanetary war, like the ones they fought on Earth-That-Was? Millions of people dying on one planet alone, multiplied across dozens of more planets?"

Zoë shook her head.

"Course you don't. Nobody does. Over two centuries of living in the 'Verse, and we have no gorram idea what interplanetary war looks like."

"And…" Zoë chose her words carefully. "What about you?"

"What?"

"Do you want to know what it looks like?"

Her father didn't say anything. Not at first. Not as he walked over to her. Not as he put his hands on Zoë's shoulders. And not for awhile, as he sighed, and looked up at the sky. At the blue turned black, as the stars shone, and did their eternal dance.

How long did they stand there? How long until-

"No," he said. "No I don't."

"Why?" Zoë asked.

"Because if war's anything like the wars of Earth, the innocent will suffer. Because you live in this world." He rubbed her shoulders, before kissing her on the forehead. "Because you're my daughter."

Zoë looked up at her father, not sure whether to hug him or not.

So she stood there.

Not knowing how long.

How long had she been here?

Hours? Days? Weeks? She couldn't tell anymore. Some primal part of her mind, still active and still aware, told her that weeks was an impossibility, and days was very unlikely. But hours? What did that mean? How many hours? More hours than a day? A week? Beyond? How many?

She couldn't say. Time was beyond her. Just push. Push. Push. Sometimes scream. Then push some more. Hear something from Simon. Ignore that thing. Push again. Scream again. Go back to pushing.

Her hands gripped the sides of the bed. She could feel the smooth leather, how the sweat of her palms washed on it. Gripped, pushed, and screamed. Daring to imagine something else. Of her husband holding her hand instead as their child came into the world. Hands now long cold, on a world long distant.

"Okay Zoë," she heard Simon say. "You're nearly there."

Liar.

"Just one more push."

For a moment, she was tempted to say "no." Why push? Why again? Why go through the experience of feeling her lower body be torn apart, when the pain in her upper body would never abate? Pain from absence. The pain that came from clutching the side of a bed instead of her husband's hand. Pain that would last long after the thing inside her came out.

"Come on Zoë, you can do it."

She opened her eyes briefly, meeting Simon's gaze. It was the gaze of a doctor – the gaze of a man who had put emotion to the side. But the gaze of a man who, at least now, trusted.

"Okay," she said, taking a breath. "One…two…"

There was no three. Only a scream. She felt something move out of her, sliding between her legs. She fell back against the bed, breathing raggedly, sweat flowing from every pore.

I've done it.

The pain was already subsiding. The pain between her legs, as her body began the process of healing the hole torn between them. The pain in her heart…that was still there, but distant. Weariness was forming a shield between her heart and the rest of her body. Willing her to sleep. To let go.

"Zoë?"

Sleep…it was calling to her. Tempting her.

"Zoë…it's a girl."

She shook her head and closed her eyes – sleep covered them. It was beginning to cover her ears as well. It was done. Over. She wanted nothing to do with this.

"Zoë?"

She could just sleep. Never wake up. Let it all go away. She'd won her final battle. Survived her final surgery. Sleep the sleep of dreamless nights. Sleep the sleep of the departed.

But she heard something. A cry.

The cry that only a child could make. A cry with rhythm and reason to it. One life calling out to another. A cry that pierced through the shroud of sleep, and the call of impotence. The cry that forced her to open her eyes. To see Simon holding her child in his arms, having wrapped a towel around it. Having cut the umbilical cord. No longer tied together, and yet she reached out. In silence, Simon put the baby in her arms. And with that, her child was silent too.

Wash…you should have been here.

Her child had her eyes. Her hair. Her skin. There was little sign of Hoban Washburne in her child. But still, she was no less his than hers.

"Hello there," Zoë whispered.

Her child let out another cry. Followed by another. Was she in pain? Was it just what babies did? Or was she perhaps asking where her father was?

"There there," Zoë whispered, taking her child to her breast. Holding it. Cradling it. "I'm here. I'm here."

The baby's cries began to abate. She closed her eyes, content at the breast of her mother.

"I'm here."

As her child rested against her chest, so did the pain under it begin to subside.

"I was wrong about you," she whispered.

Nine months of pain. A few hours of excruciating pain. Until now, she'd thought her child the source. But now, in the moment, at the creation of new life, she realized something. Her child wasn't the source. Her child was the cure.

And like her father had to her on a world all those years ago, kissed her girl on the forehead, and held her tight.

Never wanting to let go.

One pain is cured by another.

Catch some new infection in your eye and the poison of the old one would die.