The past beckons, and Zoë can't sleep, in:

Worse Things

In many ways, things had made more sense during the war.

Back then, there had been black and there had been white, the right thing and the wrong thing. They'd been the good guys, fighting the bad guys. There had been a clear goal, a path to follow, and a purpose.

Sometimes Zoë found herself longing for those days, and every time she did, she felt bad for doing so. It had been a war, after all; people had suffered and died. No sane person would ever want that. But she missed the camaraderie, the silent brotherhood of soldiers; missed being surrounded by people who just understood. Understood why she needed that dark sense of humor, why sleep would sometimes elude her, why there were things she still couldn't share, and maybe never would be able to – secrets and stories that were hers, and hers alone.

She closed her eyes for a moment, listened to the low hum from the engine – more like a feeling than a sound, really – and tried to ground herself. This was Serenity, her home, and the present had its perks too.

Like the man asleep next to her.

Wash had gone out like a light several hours ago. He was currently lying on his back, spread out like a starfish, hogging most of the bed, snoring away and smacking his lips now and then. Wherever he was, he seemed happy.

Zoë had tried to join him, but given up, and for a while now she'd just watched him, feeling a bit bad for fantasizing about a past without him in it. Because that's what it was, after all: a fantasy. She was reminiscing about a past that had never been.

The past is a lie when seen through the eyes of the present. You know this. It wasn't like that.

And things hadn't been so black and white either, come to think of it.

Only, she didn't want to.

She rose from the bed. There'd be no sleep tonight. A memory had been triggered, and she couldn't allow herself to entertain it. Not here, not next to Wash.

A low sigh escaped her husband as she moved off the mattress, but being the heavy sleeper he'd always been, he didn't wake. She quietly got dressed, moving about in the dark, and with a last loving look at the perks of the present, she left him to his peaceful dreams, opened the hatch, and climbed up the ladder.

Long before there was Hoban Washburne, there was Leland Hawkins.

And Leland was everything Wash wasn't. He was tall and athletic and brimming with a confidence that leaned heavily into cockiness, the culmination of manhood in the susceptible minds of teenage girls. The kind they fell long and hard for, and then wept bitterly over, thinking they would never ever find someone as perfect. As if you knew anything about love at sixteen.

In hindsight, it was clear she never stood a chance.

The place was Hera, the summer zone. The occasion was the Travelers' annual assembly, all their ships scattered across the field, where the old (because everyone over 25 was old back then) discussed current issues and elected their leaders, and the young partied and mingled, looking for new friends and future spouses.

Leland's father was a ship's captain, as was Zoë's mother, and they both behaved as if that elevated them above the rest, as if they were owed certain privileges. Stupid, bratty… children, really… bowing to no one. A clash was bound to happen, and it did. Spectacularly.

Maybe if he hadn't challenged her to a laser ball contest, maybe if she hadn't won, maybe if he hadn't refused to admit defeat, then maybe she could have walked away and forgot that he ever existed.

Instead, he got to her. With his annoyingly adorable grin, and the flimsy promises he maybe intended to keep, but never would. And he was good-looking. Oh, there was no denying that. Those shoulders, the piercing blue eyes, and that broad chest…

She was sixteen, he was three years older. And she lost her virginity to him that night, willingly, on the hard ground beneath a bush that prickled her skin. It wasn't romantic, not by a long shot. And it wasn't even good. But she never regretted it. Not then, not later.

It fizzled out in the end, like first loves often do, and in time she grew up and moved on, and he faded into the back of her mind and stayed there; a gem of a memory, hidden away for her to keep, but nothing more.

The lights in the hallway were dimmed when she stepped out into it. The ship was in night mode. She quietly closed the hatch behind her and looked towards the bridge, where she could just make out the shape of Mal at the helm, slumped in the pilot's chair. She thought about joining him but discarded the idea. Her captain was battling his own demons tonight.

The anger that had been simmering inside him these past few weeks, seemed to have abated somewhat since they'd left Aberdeen a couple of days ago, but he remained pensive and withdrawn. Zoë supposed he still had his regrets regarding Inara, but on top of that, he was also nursing a guilty conscience over Jayne's current state now. Even if he, in Zoë's eyes, wasn't to blame. True, he'd jumped to conclusions, but things would probably have played out the same even if he hadn't. He would know that, of course, once he'd mulled it over, and he didn't need her to remind him. Not tonight.

She went the other way, to the galley. She might as well make herself a cup of tea and go over the plan for the coming days… again. Not that it would take long. They'd arrive on Persephone in a day or so, to hand back a vehicle they'd borrowed, then spend the last of their money on fuel and head for Boros, hoping there'd be work there.

There had to be work there. There'd be just enough fuel for a one-way push, and only if they went by slow burn, which meant ten or eleven days in the Black. A week and a half with just the eight of them on top of each other, with all the unresolved tension thickening the air. Too much downtime, too much time to think. The thought of it made Zoë more nervous than she cared to admit, even to herself. She was ship-born, she'd never gotten space crazy, but there was a first time for everything, wasn't there? And if that memory kept haunting her...

She turned off the stove and poured the water back out into the sink. Tea was nice, but it wouldn't do. She knew very well what had triggered the memory.

She might as well face him.

Zoë joined the war effort the day the Alliance blew The Bohemia, the Traveler fleet's largest civilian ship, out of the sky, killing 587 souls in the process, including nine of her own family members. People who refused to settle, who chose the freedom of the sky over a home world, clearly weren't welcome in this new 'verse imagined by the gentry of the central planets, and Zoë certainly wasn't going to overstay hers.

Hating the Alliance was easy among the Browncoats. Everyone had their stories, one more hellish than the other. They fueled each other's anger and resentment, because in war it was always better to be angry than afraid. Things made sense. They were the good guys, fighting the bad guys.

And that's why that chance meeting – a couple of months out of recruitment camp and back on Hera – messed her up so much.

She caught him stealing from their med depot. He'd already filled his pockets with bandages and antihemorrhagic gel when she came upon him and immediately raised her assault rifle.

"You drop that, Purplebelly, or I'll drop you!"

Instead, he raised his own gun and spun around to point it at her.

It wasn't that she hadn't expected to ever see Leland Hawkins again. The 'verse was big, but paths did cross; it could happen. She just hadn't expected to see him in the black and purple uniform of the Alliance.

Unlike her, he grinned when he recognized her. "Zoë Alleyne, well, I'll be damned! What a sight for weary eyes."

He was older, of course. More rough around the edges. She supposed she was, too. But he was still handsome, with that same boyish sparkle in his blue eyes, and it disgusted her to her core that she thought so.

He dropped his gun a little. She didn't.

"Put that back," she spat, gesturing to his bulging pockets. "Ain't yours."

"Zoë?"

"You don't get to use my name!"

He never stopped smiling. As if he didn't see the gun trained at his head, as if he didn't believe she'd actually use it, as if they were still those stupid teenagers, as if everything in the gorramn 'verse hadn't stopped making sense… "You don't recognize your old pal?"

"Got no pals wearin' those colors. Now, put back what you took!"

"Well," he said, with that sort of a half-shrug she'd found so annoying, yet so endearing, and still did, somewhere under all that white rage, "if you're gonna pretend you don't know me –"

She cocked the gun. "I know who you are," she snarled at him. "A gorramn disgrace to our people, is who."

His face fell, then hardened. "S'pose that's a matter of perspective, don't you think so?"

She almost pulled the trigger then, out of sheer spite and hurt and confusion. But in the end the approaching sound of shouts and running feet saved him from a certain death and her from an impossible choice, because in her moment of hesitation, he turned around and ran.

He never emptied his pockets. She never shot him.

The passenger dorm was dark and quiet, but the light from the infirmary spilled out into the common area, blue and cold. The patient on the med couch inside wouldn't be bothered by it, though. He was still unconscious, lulled into a deep and artificial sleep. Zoë was somewhat surprised to find him there alone, but that most likely meant that Jayne was well enough to not be kept under constant observation, so all in all a good sign.

She stepped across the threshold and approached the bed, somewhat warily, because she knew what things the sight would stir in her. But as she took it in, she welcomed it. If it felt like a punishment, well, then maybe she deserved it.

His face was less bloody now, but still swollen, almost beyond recognition. Zoë had seen Jayne knocked out before, but not like this. It made him look almost innocent, tender, like someone to be pitied, which he'd consider a nightmare, had he known. His right leg was elevated, propped up on a pillow, and encased in a plaster cast all the way from his thigh to his toes; the left was wrapped in a blanket. He was wearing a light blue shirt she hadn't seen before, probably a hospital gown Simon had picked up at the clinic on Aberdeen, along with the rest of the stuff he'd spent their hard-earned money on. It was unbuttoned in the front, the blanket had slid down, revealing his bare chest…

Stop!

It's not what it seems.

She stepped back and sat down on the flip-down seat by the door. She pulled her leg up and rested her arm on her knee, and just watched him, defiantly. Before long she was transfixed, lulled into a trance by the steady hiss from the ventilator, the distant hum of the engine, and her reawakened memories.

"We can't keep meeting like this," she told him the third time they did.

The second time had been only a few days after the first, in the same spot. He hadn't taken anything this time, just been waiting for her there, or so it seemed. He didn't even raise his gun.

At first, she'd tried to make him leave, told him she wasn't interested in his company and excuses.

"Over my dead body," had been his reply. That, and a grin.

"There are worse things I could do than shoot you," she'd said. "After all, you're the enemy."

"I'm not your enemy," he'd insisted.

"You are as long as you wear that uniform."

But she hadn't shot him this time either, and he hadn't left. Not until right before dawn, after a full night of talking and reminiscing. As long as they avoided the topic of politics, it was kind of nice catching up.

By their third meeting, however, she wasn't so sure anymore. Still, she'd sat down to converse with him for half an hour before she voiced her concerns.

"We can't keep meeting like this."

"Why not?"

"Because you fight for the enemy, Leland."

"And you fight for mine. Doesn't bother me."

"Might be because you know deep down that mine is the right side."

He gave a snort, which might have been out of disgust or out of amusement or perhaps a bit of both. "You always were such a condescending brat, Zoë. No respect for other opinions than your own."

"This ain't about opinions, Leland! You really think I just care 'bout bein' right? I fight for freedom. I fight for our people and our continued existence!"

"And you think I'm not," he retorted.

Gorramn it, why hadn't she killed him already?

"Yes!" she exclaimed. "I can't believe you would even touch that uniform after what they did to The Bohemia. We're not that many, Leland. You must've had friends or family onboard too."

"I had," he confirmed. "But war ain't just about avengin' the past, Zoë. It's also about fightin' for a future."

"And what kind of future would that be?"

"The kind with us in it!" He threw his arms up. "No matter how you twist this, Zoë, the Independents will lose this war. You know it. And everyone who supported them will we wiped out. If you fight for the winners, at least you get a chance."

"There were children on that ship!"

"And you think your side haven't ever killed children? The massacre of Sìpíng, ring any bells?"

She didn't respond. There was no need.

She stood. "Like I said, it's best you leave."

"Zoë," he tried to smooth talk her, "I don't wanna fight you."

"And I don't wanna see you." She grabbed her gun and aimed it at him. "You're on my turf, Leland. Leave. Don't come back."

He rose, but didn't move. He just stood there, looking at her, ignoring the weapon pointed at him.

"Well, if you don't wanna leave, then I will." She turned away.

"You're not gonna shoot me?" he called after her.

"There are worse things I could do than let you live, Leland." She looked back at him over her shoulder. "But if I see you here again, rest assured, I will kill you."

Zoë heard Simon before he arrived, but not soon enough to avoid startling him as he stepped inside the room and saw her there. "Oh, geez!" he gasped, then smiled sheepishly at his reaction. "Didn't think anyone would be in here."

"I'm sorry," she said. "I… I couldn't sleep."

Simon checked the numbers on the monitor, then glanced back at her. "You want a pill?"

"No, no." She shook her head. "Just thought I'd come see how Jayne was doing." She paused a little before adding, "How is he doing?"

"He's doing quite well, considering," Simon said and replaced an empty bag of saline solution with a new one. "His vitals are strong and stable, there's no infection, the lung is healing nicely… In fact, he's doing so well I plan to pull him out of the coma in the morning."

She nodded. "When's he gonna wake up?"

"Hard to say. It'll be a slow process." He shrugged. "But I'd say… a day or two? You should be able to have a somewhat coherent conversation with him then." He looked away from his work to throw her a sideways glance. "If that's what you wanted."

I want him to stop looking like Leland. As soon as he starts flapping his mouth, I'll know he's not him.

Out loud, she said nothing.

"Since you're here, you mind help me turn him?"

"Of course."

She stepped up to the couch and, instructed by the doctor, firmly grabbed Jayne's shoulder and pulled him towards her while Simon put pillows in behind his back for him to rest on.

"I can't have him on his side because of the leg," Simon explained. "But I try to change his position every two hours, even if just a little. We want to avoid bed sores."

He reached over to adjust the breathing tube, then double-checked the monitor. The blanket had slid off Jayne again, and Zoë pulled it back around him, tenderly tucking him in before she knew what she was doing. Simon noticed, she saw that, but he didn't comment on it.

"How 'bout you?" she asked him. "You gettin' enough sleep?"

"Don't worry about me," he smiled reassuringly. "I get my power naps. We check in on him once an hour." He added, clarifying, "The shepherd and I take turns." He wiped his hands. "Well, looks like he's all set for now."

"Then don't stay up on my account," she said when she saw him look hesitantly at the door. "I'll just sit here for a bit."

"Alright. Good night."

And with that he stepped out of the room and left her there. With Jayne. And her ghosts.

In the end, she didn't have to kill him.

As her platoon moved out the next day, they came upon his body, dangling from a rope in a tree, all beaten and bloodied. A piece of paper was pinned to his chest.

"Aino?" one of the guys read from it. "What the hell's an aino?"

"Alliance In Name Only," the corporal replied. "His own side did him in. Pro'bly been fraternizin' with the enemy."

"And if he's been fraternizin' with any of you," the lieutenant added, "consider yourself lucky I don't know. 'Cuz you'd be swingin' up there next to'm."

She kept quiet, of course. She spat at the ground with the rest of them and moved on. A week later she was transferred to a different platoon, where she crossed paths with a certain Sergeant Reynolds and her life took on a new trajectory. She never spoke of Leland Hawkins to anyone.

But she kept him there, in the back of her mind. She silently added him to the long list of things the Alliance had taken from her, and just like with the rest of the things on that list, on sleepless, lonely nights, she grieved him.

Zoë jerked awake as her head slumped forward, steadying herself as her pulse slowed and her breathing deepened. Sleep was beckoning her, after all.

She rose stiffly from her seat and stepped up to the bed to have one more look at the patient, to see if there was anything else the sight of him wanted to tell her. This time, however, she only felt a smile tug at her mouth. Jayne would be alright. He was just resting.

Like the past should be doing.

She reached out a hand and gave his arm a little squeeze. "Sleep tight," she whispered as she turned away and walked out of the room. "Both of you."