When he woke, he felt better. Not well, but better. Still furious. He couldn't remember when he'd been so pissed off and hadn't killed someone over it.
The thing, whatever she had done, had worn off during the night. The kid's thoughts no longer competed with his own for dominance.
He sat up in his bunk, threw his legs over the side, and sighed heavily, running his hands through his short hair. Then his eyes fell on a scrap of material, caught in the rough metal legging of his bunk. Frowning, he reached down and pulled it free. No bigger than the width of two fingers and the length of his palm. Soft, off-white. He brought it to his nose, scenting it like a bloodhound. Impossibly, it smelled of apples.
It dawned on him like the sun rising on a dark planet. It was part of her nightgown, the same one she'd worn down into the bay that night.
She'd been there.
Fury surged in him anew as he remembered how she had grabbed him yesterday and for a moment, a part of him had been pleased, pleased that she'd touched him in front of the others, even though he'd known it would cause trouble. Then, the mad burning behind his eyes as she'd done whatever it was she had done, the sensation of falling. The fear, the panic, the absolute terror. It had taken everything he'd had to make it back to his bunk without screaming.
He growled softly to himself, imagining her throat between his hands. Gorram her, he thought.
Then he thought of the child lying in the medlab, the clone, Sarah. He'd had a unique look into her life, and though the method of it had him considering murder, he couldn't help but sympathize with the little thing. She hadn't done nothin' in her short life but suffer, and though he despised the method by which his knowledge had come about, he wished he could help. He wished he could help all of them, 'course he did – but he knew it wasn't to be. Clones didn't have no rights. It was illegal to have'em, to hire'em, to socialize with'em. Some passed as the genuine article, of course. He'd heard how some rich folk had themselves cloned – called'em toolmen. If a man had enough money, he could have his own toolman, who might be a servant, a convenient source of donor guts, or even a stand-in for social or business functions. But you had to be licensed in order to get one, and even then, the tool didn't have no rights. That's just the way things was.
Jayne ground his teeth. It wasn't right to make'em, he really thought that. But once they was made, was it right to treat'em so wrong-like?
He felt another surge of resentment as he considered this. If it weren't for River Tam puttin' the kid's memories in his head, he'a never in his life thought of such things. This was her fault.
He shook his head, trying to shake off his anger. He was still hungry, he realized, and slid off his bunk. Still dressed from the day before, he hesitated for a moment, then headed up to the mess.
As he moved through the hallways of Serenity, nothing felt right, for some reason. Everything seemed… somehow unfamiliar, as if he were seeing it for the first time.
He frowned. It was the kid's impressions, he realized. Not her actual thoughts, but his mind remembered them. He shook his head, praying this was an effect that would wear off with time.
In the mess, Inara was making tea. As he entered, she turned and looked him over. After a short assessment, she smiled at him. "Hello, Jayne," she said quietly. "How are you doing ?"His eyes narrowed on her. Since when did Inara care?
"Are you alright?" she asked him, and he realized that he saw genuine concern in her eyes.
For him.
He didn't know how to respond for a minute, it had been so long since anyone had shown any concern for him, or even been polite, truth be known - then shook himself out of it. "I reckon I'm alright," he said. "I'm hungry, though."
She smiled. "Sit, and I'll fix you something."
Now, this was something new. Never, in all the time he and Inara had shipped together had the two of them ever exchanged more than a polite word with one another. Occasionally, a few not-so-polite words.
He looked at her suspiciously. "Why?" he asked bluntly.
Her smile faded, and she shrugged. "No reason, really," she said, turning back to her teapot. "Just thought I would, since you've had a rough couple of days."
"How long was I out?" he asked.
She glanced over her shoulder, eyebrows raised. "… A couple of days – I thought you knew…"
He shook his head and snorted. Two days, layin' up in his bunk like a invalid. It galled him. No damn wonder he was hungry. He stared down at his hands.
"It's alright," he heard Inara say softly. "Simon told me what she did to you – it must have been quite a shock."
Jayne looked up at her. "I don't wanna discuss it," he said. He meant it to come out as a snarl, but instead it just came out kinda tired soundin'.
Inara smiled gently. "I'll fix you something to eat. You'll feel better."
On the one hand, Jayne didn't like it one bit, being the object of someone's pity. On the other hand, he wasn't about to say no to a meal that one of the girls volunteered to fix for him. Hell, if Inara wanted to fix his breakfast every day for the rest of his life, Jayne didn't have a problem with it. Maybe he could get her to mend his britches next time he ripped'em up. Huh. Prob'ly not. 'Course – this probably meant he was gonna hafta be nicer to her from now on, but he figured he could bring hisself to be nice to a woman who had made him breakfast when he was feelin' poorly.
Quietly, Inara set about her business, and after a moment or two, she set a cup of tea by his hand, along with a bottle of water. "I thought you might be thirsty," she said. And he realized that she was right. He was thirsty. Two days unconscious might do that to a man. He drank deeply.
"Thank you," he heard himself say, as if from a distance. He couldn't remember the last time he had thanked anyone for anything, but then again – he couldn't remember the last time anyone had done anything for him that deserved thanks. Unless you counted Mal not flushin' him out the airlock as they was leavin' Ariel. Maybe he shoulda said thanks then, too.
Just as Inara was placing a plate of protein pancakes in front of him, Mal wandered into the mess, slowly pulling one suspender over his shoulder and grimacing.
"Well, if it ain't sleepin' beauty," he drawled, just as Inara placed sythetic maple syrup on the table next to Jayne's hand.
Mal paused for a moment then, looking from Jayne to Inara, then squinted like he sometimes did when he was startin' to get irritated.
Inara only looked back over her shoulder at Mal, her face all innocence.
"Are you makin' Jayne pancakes?" Mal asked.
Inara shrugged, her pink satin clad shoulder glinting softly in the soft, warm light of Serenity's kitchen. "What if I am?" she asked.
Mal shook his head. "Nothin'," he said. "Just wonderin why Jayne rates pancakes."
Inara shook her head with a half-smile. "You are such a child sometimes, Mal," she said, turning back to the stove.
"Yeah," he said, "but I got shot, and you didn't make me no pancakes! Hell, I got stabbed once, defendin' your honor, and you didn't even make me pancakes then!"
She sighed. "How many do you want?" she asked, resigned.
Mal plopped down at the table to Jayne's right. "Six," he said. "What I don't finish, Jayne'll eat."
Jayne nodded, his mouth too full to argue. He felt hungry enough to eat three times that much, truth be told.
Inara only sighed and retrieved more ingredients from the cupboard.
Breakfast ended up being a pretty quiet affair, since once Inara finished with the pancakes, she vacated – leaving all the dishes, Jayne noted. He reckoned he wasn't too good to do his own dishes, considerin'. Hell, he'd even do Mal's plate, too – wasn't every day someone made him breakfast. And he had to admit, just as Inara had promised – he did feel better.
As the two of them finished their pancakes, Mal looked Jayne over assessingly. "You feel all… recuperated?" he asked the big man quietly.
Jayne's head turned to the side as he considered what to say, coincidentally avoiding his captain's eyes – a fact not missed by said captain. Finally, turning his attention back to his plate, Jayne said, "I'm able to work, I reckon." Then he glanced quickly up at Mal.
"You gonna tell me what happened between the two of you out there?""Mal asked. "What made'er think she could do what she did?"
Jayne's gaze met Mal's, as earnest as Mal had ever seen it. "I swear to you, Mal," he said quietly, "nothin'… wrong… happened." Jayne shook his head from side to side. "But – somethin' - somethin' did happen." When he looked back at Mal, Jayne just seemed puzzled. "I don't know… what happened," he said. "We was – cold. Runnin' from them crazy dupes. She seemed… kinda normal. Then, not so much no more.. and then she - well, she grabbed me."
Mal only looked at him. At Jayne's intense look, he finally got what the mercenary was talking about. His eyes got large for a moment, then he nodded. "Okay," he said. "And you did… what?"
Jayne pushed his plate away. "I didn't do nothin', Mal," he said tiredly. "I – I told her not to even think like that, I told her it wasn't never gonna happen - " Jayne visibly ground his teeth. "I don't know," he said, finally. "Maybe I hurt her feelins' or somethin' – maybe she wanted to get back at me."
Mal looked at him steadily. "You tellin' me everything, Jayne?" he asked.
Jayne considered. Was he tellin' everything that happened? Did it matter that he had felt so soft for her for those few hours in the dark? Did it matter that, unable to see her in the darkness, he had lightly traced the planes of her face with his fingertips? That he had smoothed her hair away from her face? That he had smelled her, filled his lungs over and over with the scent of apples that clung to her, no matter that it wasn't possible that she could smell like apples no more? Did it matter that he had tightened his arms around her as she had cried out softly in her sleep and felt bad for the pain that she re-lived every night in her nightmares? Did it matter?
Finally, he looked up at Mal and nodded. "Yeah," he said resolutely. "I'm tellin' you everything."
(some time later)
"So," Mal said, stretching back on the sofa in Inara's shuttle. "Wanna tell me what breakfast for Jayne was all about?"
Inara continued her present project, which looked to be origami, and only glanced up before answering. "I feel – badly for him, I guess," she said quietly. "He has a very hard road ahead."
"Whatdaya mean?" Mal sipped his tea, being very careful as he set down the fragile cup on the small table between the two of them.
Inara shrugged. "What River did to him – it was – well, to a man like Jayne, it was actually rather cruel," she said thoughtfully. "What she did will make him a better man. Unfortunately, that which makes a man better is often very painful." She glanced back at Mal before turning her eyes back the origami. "I just have a feeling that Jayne is only a fan of pain when he's dealing it – not feeling it."
Mal snorted. "Reckon that's true of most folk, don't you?"
Inara grimaced and balled up the paper in her hands decisively. "Actually," she said, "I'm not really a fan of pain at all."
Mal pondered this for a moment before asking, "You think that's what she meant to do?" he asked. "Make him a better man?"
Inara considered. "Perhaps it wasn't a conscious decision," she said. "But why else force a strong man to feel empathy with the weak?"
Her gaze lingered on him for a moment, then she began folding a new piece of paper.
Mal considered for a moment. Then he snorted. "I reckon Jayne could use a heads-up regardin' how it feels to be the weaker person in a situation," he said. Then he smiled ruefully. "And I can see how he might hate the person who showed 'im what's what." He looked over at Inara's downcast eyes. "You reckon he'll hate 'er?"
"It will go one way or the other, Mal," Inara answered. "He'll either hate her with every fiber of his being – or, eventually – he'll love her … completely." She sighed. "Before it's all over – I suspect both."
A week passed, in which time, shepherds was fetched and dropped off with the clones on Artemis. In the meantime, the clone child, Sarah, died in the medlab.
He stood with the others in the cargo hold while Book conducted his ritual, and tried like hell not to let the others see how tore up he felt. As he stood there, looking on the small, silent body of the girl, he remembered her memories, no longer stuck in his head, but faintly still there – copies of copies.
He knew how she'd gotten the acid scar on her right hand and how ashamed she'd been of the birthmark on her face. He wished that he'd told the kid that the mark was kinda intrestin', that he sorta liked it. But, he hadn't quite been able to bring himself to actually go down to the medlab and speak to her, afraid that someone would see him there. That someone would question him about his reason for being there, and that he'd have nothing to answer. So he'd stayed away.
While Book said his words, Jayne looked across at River, only to see her clinging to Simon's hand . In fact, he noticed resentfully, it looked like the doc had it all - Kaylee in one hand, River in the other, though it wasn't clear who was comfortin' who over there. What with Kaylee cryin', River's bottom lip stickin' out, and the doc's jaw set like he was grindin' his teeth something fierce, Jayne had to admit they all looked like he felt.
Still, he barely managed to stand there long enough to let Book have his say, and then he turned and left, fists clenched. It weren't his way to feel much grief, much less to share it, but he had to admit to himself that if someone had been there to hold his hand - particularly her… he mighta let her, even though she was the cause of his pain.
Days passed, and then they turned into weeks. Jayne continued to do what it was he did, and the Tams kept their distance, though River's eyes often fell on him at the dinner table. He wasn't good at hiding his feelings, and whenever he caught her looking, his jaw would clench. As often as not, he'd leave the table without a word to anyone. Kaylee had asked him so often if he was alright that he'd finally told her to mind her own business, earning him black looks from nearly everyone on board. The shepherd had asked him twice if he wanted to talk and even Zoe asked him once if he was plannin' on getting' over it. He had only continued loading freight until her continued silence had made him turn to her and say "You ain't got no idea what it is you're askin' me to get over. So drop it." Zoe had narrowed her eyes on him for a second, and then she'd only nodded and gone back to work.
He didn't think about leavin' anymore, though, that was the odd thing. He was actually worried that Mal might decide to replace him – no matter that only a few weeks before, he'd been planning his getaway. Now, for whatever reason, he didn't want to go. He didn't want to deal with the Tams, but he didn't want to leave Serenity.
He spent a lot of time in his bunk. He'd taken to readin', and found the more he did it, the easier it came to him. He might even ask Wash and Kaylee to set him up with a cortex connection one of these days. He also spent time workin' out, though he was careful to do it only when someone else was in the bay. He didn't mean to be caught alone by her again if he could help it.
'Course, it didn't matter how much he avoided her, there was the dreams. He couldn't avoid those.
Every night, it seemed, his mind dwelled on her somethin' fierce. When he went to his bunk, he tried to think on anything but her, but as soon as his eyes closed, he dreamed… and when he dreamed, he dreamed of her. He relived the few moments they'd spent together over and over. Sometimes his mind embroidered on them, added scenarios which had never happened, until he wasn't sure what was real and what wasn't. And when he saw her around the ship, those dreams rose up in his mind and he could almost taste her on his lips.
It only made him angrier and more determined to avoid her and her damned brother at any cost.
Except, of course, there's only so long a mercenary is gonna be able to avoid the only doctor on board.
It happened on Persephone, which was kinda ironic. He'd been getting' some much needed time away from Serenity at one of his favorite watering holes, a down-and-dirty little hole in the wall called Jack's Place. At Jack's a man could everything that a man like Jayne Cobb might want. Drinks, women, guns and entertainment. And even though he knew better than to get too wound up in a place like Jack's – he drank too much. And that, inevitably, led to fightin', which usually led to someone getting' hurt. This time, it was him.
He stumbled into Serenity in the middle of the night. Everyone was either gone or sleepin', 'cept Wash, who opened the door for him, and he was on the deck. With a minimum of words exchanged between the two, Jayne stumbled in and made his way to the medlab.
Gingerly, he turned on the lights and leaned against the counter, bracing himself with one hand. Pulling his shirt up with the other hand, he assessed the damage, and hissed. It was pretty bad.
He'd bled plenty – his shirt was soaked and the front of his pants as well. He'd left a pretty blood trail that was gonna need cleanin' up, that was for sure. He looked around and tried to remember where the doc kept his bandages. Gingerly, he opened one drawer, then another. The two knife wounds in his belly were burnin' somethin' fierce, and he stopped to take a deep breath before continuing his search.
"Can help you, if you want," came a voice from the doorway. Her voice, of course. Of course.
He glared at her over his shoulder, not even surprised that she had found him. Hell, he'd known if he ever wandererd around this boat in the middle of the night again, she'd catch him. And she had.
"Thanks," he growled, glaring at her. "I think you've helped enough. Now, piss off."
She stepped through the doorway. "You've lost a lot of blood," she said casually. "Bleeding everywhere. Might be internal bleeding. You could die." She said this as if she might be commenting on the weather.
He turned and straightened, trying not to grimace as he did so. "Don't sound so broke up about it," he grunted, still looking for the bandages. Where in the hell were they?
"Already broken, everybody knows that," River replied seriously. "Can't be more broken than broken, can I?" She took another step toward him. "Bandages won't help," she said.
He turned back to her angrily, and when he did so, he felt something tear inside him. It felt as if molten lava had been poured into the deeper wound. He clutched his gut tighter and groaned. After he caught his breath, he looked up to glare at her, but she was gone
Despite his true desire for her to go away, he was surprised for a second. Then the bright light of the medlab closed in around him and faded to black.
He knew there was somethin' wrong when he realized he was nekkid.. Strollin' down the hallway to his bunk in the bluish half-light of the night cycle, bare-assed nekkid, a gun in each hand..
Hunh.
He looked around to see if anyone was about, but luck seemed to be on his side. Quickly, he ducked into his bunk and descended, hardly challenged at all by the logistics of descending a ladder with a gun in each hand and nowhere to holster either one of 'em.
Hearing a sigh at his back, he spun, both guns at the ready, only to find River (danger) standing there by his bunk, wearing that white thing he'd seen her ghosting around the ship in on previous nights.
On the one hand, it was an innocent piece of clothing, something a young girl could wear with no self-consciousness merely because it was comfortable and pretty and suitable for sleeping in. On the other hand, it was as lightweight as starshine. When she moved, like she was doin' now, it shifted over her skin, caressing and releasing with each movement until he could almost see through the damn thing, and his fingers itched to know if it was as soft as it looked…
She moved toward him, one long dancer's foot after the other until she stood directly before him, looking up at him from beneath her hair. Slowly, her hand moved until it rested on one of his, gently pushing the gun down.
"Not your enemy," she whispered, her eyes never leaving his.
Deliberately, her other hand pushed his second gun down, her dark eyes still fixed on his lighter ones.
Then her fingers lightly circled his heavy wrists, began to crawl up his arms in slow inches, barely touching him. Her eyes finally pulled from his to look where her fingers traced a scar on his upper arm.
"Bullet," she whispered, her
voice so soft that he leaned closer to hear her and nearly choked on
the scent of her. Apples. "Betrayed."
He remembered that. First time he'd ever been shot. Sure had made him mad, he remembered that clear enough. Bein' backstabbed by a friend wasn't somethin' a man ever forgot.
She had moved on, though, to the long slash mark that started just at the point of his shoulder joint and arced gracefully over onto his shoulderblade.
"Lander accident," she intoned.
He grinned. His daddy'd damn near killed him over that incident, but some things were just worth the price ya payed for'em.
Then her fingers circled the point of his shoulder and found the scar on his chest, nearly invisible now where Simon had given him fine stitches and a weave. Only a practiced eye, or someone who knew where to look could see it now. Still, her fingers traced over it unerringly.
"My fear," she said simply.
He covered her hand on his chest with his own, and looked down into her eyes. He frowned. "Been hurt lots worse in my life," he said. "Why, this wasn't hardly more'n a scratch on my tough hide."
"Hurt you," she said softly.
He nodded. "Yeah, you did," he admitted. "People got a tendancy to do that to one another." He pulled her hand down and placed it on the wound in his gut that even now spilled blood down his leg, though he hadn't noticed it until now. "Take a look at this, girl," he said. "Now, that's a real wound."
She only looked back at him, her eyes full of shadows in the half-light.
Then, completely unfazed by his injury, he touched her cheek, only to find out if it was as soft as it looked…And it was – so soft that he stroked his fingers over it again, so lightly, afraid that his rough touch was unwelcome – and say what you would 'bout Jayne Cobb, but he wasn't a man for forcin' his attentions where they wasn't wanted.
She smiled up at him shyly and licked her lips, suddenly making his mouth water to lick them for her.
"Scars on me, too," she said softly, "spelling out a different kind of story…"
His fingers stroked down her cheek to her jaw, then lightly skimmed over the shell of her hear. So soft.
"Yeah?" he said, huskily, hardly understanding her words now, his whole mind and body concentrated on the tips of his fingers. "Wh-what kinda story is that?"
The room just seemed to be getting' dimmer and dimmer – not so's it was dark, just so's everythin' pale seemed to stand out, and everything dark seemed to be in shadow. Her skin shone like the inside of a shell his ma had shown him once when he was a kid, and her hair laid like black smoke over her shoulder. He touched it as she spoke again, faintly surprised to find it so warm and smooth.
She looked down, then glanced up at him out of the corner of her eye. "Story of innocence," she said, with a gentle smile. "A tale of violence."
His fingers traced back down the side of her throat. "Yeah," he said. "And mine's just a story 'bout stupidity." He smiled down at her. "I c'n see what you mean about a different kinda story."
His fingers, so large, so dark against her throat – pushed her hair back over her shoulder, baring the white skin beneath. He traced the skin there, back up to her ear, and gazed down at her, only to see her eyes close and her head tip to the side in invitation… And suddenly his world narrowed down to this moment, to her heat, her skin, her scent.
"Tell me what you want," he whispered huskily, her closed eyes and faint smile almost more than he could take. More than anything, he didn't want to misread this moment, wanted only to hear her say that she wanted him to put his hands on her, wanted with everything that was in him to hear her say that she wanted him as much as he wanted her in this nonsensical moment of darkness and light and utter silence..
His other hand curved into her hair and cradled her, the curve of her skull fitting perfectly into his palm. It was as if the two were parts of a puzzle, brought finally together by circumstance, innocence, violence and stupidity. As if the two of them had been brought together by their scars, which were ultimately no more or less than maps written in pain that each of them had followed inevitably one to the other.
"Tell me," he whispered again.
He watched as her eyelashes fluttered and her eyes drifted open. "I want you to touch me," she said, her voice as dark and tempting as sin. "Make me real. Taste me," she murmured. She leaned up and wrapped her arms around his neck and he pulled her slight form against him, finding her now, impossibly as naked as he was.
He lifted her high against him, his arms crossed over her smooth and slender back. For a moment he thought she might disappear in his arms, and his hold tightened as she leaned up to speak again, this time her hot breath curling into his ear.
"I want your forgiveness," she whispered. "You're burning me up inside…"
Jayne jerked awake in the medlab, sweating and panting. He ground his teeth in frustration, even as his nostrils flared and he breathed deep. Impossibly, he could still smell her warm scent, wafting around him.
When he tried to sit up, the doctor leaned over him, placing on hand on his shoulder.
"Stay where you are, Jayne," Simon said briskly. "You don't want to ruin all the work I've done on you."
Jayne looked around for River, knowing that where Simon was, River wasn't far.
Simon, fiddling with his instruments, looked over his shoulder to find Jayne looking.
"She's not here," he said, and Jayne lay his head back, trying to relax.
Simon approached with his ever-ready pen light, flashing it into Jayne's eyes. Whatever that had to do with a gut wound, anyway. After shining the light in his eyes, Simon pulled the sheet down to take a look at Jayne's wounds.
"You'd be dead right now if it wasn't for her, you know," he said conversationally, as he tested the tighness of the bandage. "You lost a lot of blood," he continued. "Took some damage to your liver, too – but I was able to sew it all up. The news is – you're going to live."
Jayne grunted, not sure what to say.
Simon only looked at him for a moment before shaking his head and turning away.
Jayne wondered for a second what the doc's problem was, then – "…I 'preciate you… sewin' me up, doc," he said. "Wasn't too smart 'o me to get cut like that."
Simon turned back, a slightly shocked look on his face. After a moment, he marshalled his expression. "Well," he said, "you're welcome. From both of us. Because if River hadn't gotten me out of bed, all that would be left of you this morning would be your bled-out corpse."
Jayne looked away. "I ain't gotta thank her," he muttered, "since she's the cause of it. Leave'er out of it."
Simon turned back to Jayne, and leaned casually against the counter in the medlab, crossing his arms across his chest. He arched an eyebrow. "Alright," he said. "By all means, please tell me how River is responsible for you getting yourself stabbed. This should be interesting."
Blue eyes clashed with blue for a second, then Jayne looked away. "Aw.. forget it, doc," he said. "I don't wanna talk about it."
Simon was adamant. "No, Jayne," he said. "I think you do want to talk about it, or you wouldn't have brought it up. So let's hear about it. Maybe you'll feel better once you whine about it for a while."
Jayne wouldn't have been any more shocked if the young doctor had kicked him in the gut. He tried to sit up, and failed. His limbs felt heavy and awkward, and his ears started to ring.
"That's the anesthetic," Simon informed him calmly. "It's wearing off, but it may be an hour or so before you can… well, wring my neck, for one."
Jayne fell back weakly. He glared at Simon. "I ain't no whiner," he growled. "What she done to me wasn't right – and more than that – it wasn't called for. I din't do nothin' to her," he said, suddenly bewildered. Somehow, that thought hadn't even ocurred to him yet. He hadn't even done nothin' to her, and she had put that stuff in his head. He continued. "Kept'er warm all that night, kept'er safe. Din't take advantage of her, though she damn sure wanted me to – and the very next day, she – she -"
Simon finished for him. "She put that child's thoughts, her life, into you. And it must have been quite a shock. Maybe it even hurt. Is that what you were going to whine about?"
Jayne's voice rose to a shout. "You ain't got no gorram idea what the ruttin' hell you're talkin' about!" Awkwardly, he struggled to rise, and nearly fell off the bed. Simon pressed him back with a hand to his chest, completely unruffled.
Then he leaned in close to Jayne, his eyes narrowed. "I have more of an idea than you might think," he answered Jayne's accusation. "What she did to you – putting the experiences of another person in your head for a few hours – it was shocking for you. But you should stop and think for a minute about what life is like for River. Can you even imagine how much information she has in her head?"
Simon backed up a step and clenched his jaw for a moment. When he spoke again, he was calmer, but his eyes were serious. "So, yes, Jayne," he said. "What she did to you was… not kind. I'm just saying – her judgment might not be the best. The same as yours on Ariel. But I think she had her reasons for doing it."
Jayne's brain was busy trying to absorb all that the doctor was saying to him, but he thought he understood. But what was that last?
"What reason?" Jayne asked. This was important to him. If he knew why she'd done it, maybe he could forgive her.
Simon sighed heavily. "Believe it or not," he said tiredly, "I think she did it because she likes you. God help us all."
He came down to the mess nearly every day to use the large table there to clean his guns, or do whatever needed doing. He told himself it was because there was enough space there to spread out. It damn sure didn't have nothin' to do with the fact that River would inevitably arrive after he'd gotten comfortable and sit down across from him and take out her sketch book.
Every now and then, someone would wander into the kitchen on one errand or another, but the oppressive, even competitive, silence broadcasting from the big table eventually sent even Kaylee and Book running for cover. Even Inara wouldn't enter the kitchen when they were there.
The two of them sat at the big table in the mess – he cleaning his guns, she drawing. Both, silent. It had been this way for days, the two of them drawn together in utter, frustrating silence.
He would admit, only in the privacy of his own mind, she had scared him. The girl had scared him more than he'd imagined he could be scared, had damn near scared him out of his mind. Yet, still, he sought her out.
In silence.
She drew while he cleaned his guns. Sometimes, he heard her draw a breath, and thought she would speak. His own breath would stop as he waited – then, nothing. He would sigh, the moment would pass and silence would – continue. He'd be damned if he'd be the first to talk – hell, he didn't even know what he'd say.
It made him angry. Why couldn't she just say something? Then he could forgive her. Couldn't the damn girl read his mind?
He looked up as she turned the page in her sketch book, then went back to the handgun he was working on, the one he called Glory. She was a beauty. Sleek, slender, and dark. Deceptively delicate. Full of death. Just how he liked his weapons. He looked up as he heard her sigh.
She didn't look up, so her voice surprised him. "I miss – water," she said quietly, so quietly he almost wondered if she'd spoken at all…
He pretended to keep working on Glory for a minute to see if she would say more, but she appeared to be absorbed in her drawing.
Finally, he spoke. "There's water aplenty if y're thirsty," he said gruffly.
Her head came up, and her eyes were sad as they met his in the cool light of Serenity's kitchen.
She smiled a tentative half smile as brown searched into blue, then went back to her drawing.
"No," she said softly. " I miss… lakes. Baths. Fountains." She closed her eyes. "I miss the sound of water… I miss rain."
And it crossed his mind, not for the first time, that it wasn't natural for a body to find hisself moored out in the black for months or even years on end, with no weather and no seasons to tell the passage of time by.
She shrugged, self-deprecating, as she drew. "I danced once," she continued, her voice so soft that he had to strain to hear it. "I danced in the rain… A warm, summer rain." Her hand eerily continued it's work, even when she looked up and her eyes met his again. "I danced, and Simon came out, and he laughed.. I danced until I was soaked and exhausted, until I fell to my knees and the rain fell on me like the story of life…" Then her brows lowered and her eyes returned to the paper. "Then my mother came, and – and all the bluebirds flew away…"
She shook her head, and her eyes slowly moved higher, meeting his again where he had never looked away from her.
It was so hard to look away once he'd looked.
There were tears in her eyes. "More than seven thousand rain drops fell on me that day," she said. "As warm as tears."
River's brow folded and her chin trembled, and Jayne felt his gut clench in unwilling sympathy just as she rose and fled the mess, her bare feet nearly silent on Serenity's metal floors, dark hair flying out behind her. Her sketch book remained behind in the familiar silence.
He scowled.
Gently, he placed Glory on the table and reached out for the book.
The page it was opened to showed only the black outline of a girl, arms raised, palms up, twirling beneath a darkened sky. Around her, the rain fell.
He turned back a page.
Startled, he nearly dropped the book, hardly realizing he was holding it now. His own face stared out at him, unmistakable. Him, at this very table, guns spread out before him, a scowl on his face. Was this what he looked like to her? He looked so angry.
Then he remembered that he was angry. Hell, for all intents and purposes, he hated the Tams – both of'em, he told himself firmly.
He shook his head, turning back another page. On it, Mal's face laughed up at him, and for a thin moment, he felt a thread of what? Jealousy? What the hell for was the girl starin' at Mal's laughin' face? With a barely suppressed growl, he turned back another page.
What he saw there nearly floored him. This was him again, but him… younger.. Not much older than she was now. Hell, she'd even drawn his hair long, like he used to keep it. And that was the farm. That was the pond down near the apple trees, where he used to go for the quiet.
There was only one place she could have seen this, and that was – in his mind.
He tried to be furious – but somehow, he just couldn't. He was tired of bein' mad at her. She couldn't help everything she saw, he knew that. He thought of this place often, maybe she'd just picked up on it and found it as beautiful as he had.
For the barest moment, an unformed memory tickled at the edge of his mind, a faint and slender idea of her at that pond… then disappeared. He shook his head at the impossibility and went back to the sketch book.
He sighed. That place was long gone, now. The farm had still been sold and broken up, the apple trees were likely long cut down. He sighed. And the boy she had drawn here had become what? A hard man with a fondness for apples and no intention of ever settin' foot back on that planet again. He was too changed, the universe was a different place now.
He turned back another page.
This page was very dark, nearly every inch colored in black. But there was shapes in it, black on black it seemed like, and the the shapes, when he stared at them, could have been men. In fact, the longer he stared at the drawing, the more he made out. A… laboratory? Dark men? He wondered, if the drawing had been a painting, if the men would be wearing blue gloves. Was this a nightmare image she'd drawn, or a memory? Most like, he'd never know.
Another page back.
Here was Kaylee, but not Kaylee laughing or smiling as she usually was. Kaylee, alone in the engine room, her face turned to the workings of Serenity's engines. Kaylee with something like a … holy light in her eyes, kinda like what the preacher looked like when he was talkin' about god. Instinctively, he knew this was how Kaylee looked only when she was completely alone, and seein' her like this kinda made him feel like he was spyin' on her. He quickly turned the page.
The next one was Inara, but it was an Inara he'd never seen, and without this drawing, never would. Inara, reclining in a bed, her hair around her, wrapped in a flowing gown. She'd been drawn plainer than he'd ever seen her – thin, drawn, without make-up. She stared into the distance, her eyes meloncholy. He wondered what it meant.
There were many more drawings in the book, most of them of the people on board, often pictured as Jayne had never seen them. Some of the drawings, however, did not depict Serenity or her crew. Some of these depicted instead, laboratories. One in particular depicted a man sprawled out face-down over a table in a dark room, an even darker stain spreading from beneath his head.
There were drawings of people he didn't know. One or two might have been kids she knew at school, or at the facility that she and her brother only referred to as The Academy. That was where they had broken her, he knew that. Were these sketches of other kids that had been taken there? Most like, he'd never know.
He flipped the book shut, and went to gathering up his guns and supplies. Whatever was in that book, he told himself firmly, wasn't none of his business. Not the girl who danced in the rain, nor her school friends, nor her dark laboratory nightmares. Nor even her interest in Mal, if it existed. None of it.
He tried to ignore the fact that when he sat at this silent table with her, he felt more at peace than he had since he'd left home. Even after what she'd done to him. Because he couldn't forget the smile she'd thrown at him on Ariel or the feel of her tears on his shoulder as she'd begged him not to let the Blue Hands take her again.. Because of how she'd looked in that purple dress in the snow and how she'd felt stretched out against him inside his coat.
At the doorway, he paused and looked back at the sketchbook lying on the table, his jaw clenched. Then he stepped back, picked it up, and left the kitchen as empty as he had found it.