Reconstruction
By Katia-chan
A/N: And I wander back into Firefly again. This is the second incarnation of this fic, the first one having been eaten by my computer. It was originally written for the prompt "cross" on the Livejournal community firefly100. But previously mentioned computer intervention meant I missed the deadline, and this one grew a bit longer than originally intended.
Reviews with comments and criticism are always welcome, and, in fact, vastly improve my days, so.
Disclaimer: Not mine, not a bit of it.
Enjoy!
XXX
Simon comes into his room to find River sitting on his bed. Her legs are tucked beneath her, and her hands trace through the air, making eerie pale patterns, as if she's directing a symphony only she can hear.
"River?" he asks, watching her movements, finding them almost mesmerizing. The same, over and over, with the single-minded diligence that has always been his sister's personality.
"Be quiet," she murmurs, only sparing him the briefest glance, watching her hands with a sort of fascination, as if they belonged to someone else. "You're on holy ground. You'll disturb the saints. They might steal your beads, hide them." She goes back to watching her hands again, and he watches her face. She has that look, the look of someone who's woken up from a nightmare and doesn't know where they are, or if they're still dreaming. It's frightening to him, the idea that he can never know where her awareness is, or where she's coming from, what she's seeing. And all the while her hands move, forehead, chest, both shoulders, back again.
"River," he asks tentatively, after seconds of silence, because he's realized what her hand movements are, and he doesn't understand. "What are you doing?" She doesn't look up when she answers him.
"Making his sign." She pauses, considers, then goes on. "Preacher says it's faith, says it can bring me back, says that he prays. But actions speak louder than words. So this is better. It's like a program. Put In a pattern, get a girl out at the other end." She seems troubled then, a frown darkening her previously pleased expression. Her movements become more agitated, the smooth cross fragmenting until her hands move in fluttery little jerks in front of her face, and she looks desperately all round the tiny room. "But there was no warning. No advisory on the label. It didn't say the girl would come out with marks, inside and out, marks on her head, her hands, her feet. It didn't say she'd come as damaged goods. Didn't tell you you wouldn't get what you were ordering. False advertising. . . "
He reaches up, capturing her hands between his own, stilling her. "Mei-mei," he says, staring her right in the face, holding her gaze. "I knew what it would be like when I came for you." He had no idea, not really, but psychic or not, they're words he needs her to hear, even if she won't believe them. "I knew it would be hard. But you're my sister, and I love you. I'm going to help you, and you'll feel better. The rest doesn't matter to me."
"Simon…" Her head lowers, and she turns her hands so she can squeeze his. Then she looks back up at him, and her look is regret and apology. "But you never think it matters to me."
She carefully pulls her hands from his, then, looking resolute, continues to trace her cross.
TTFN