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F: Steady Hands
Fandom: Firefly
Pairing: None
Warnings: Angst, deathfic
Rating: PG
Summary: Simon doesn't remember when Mal started to steady him.
He's not sure when it first happened. He remembers a plague-stricken colony: the heat, the smell, the gloves between his skin and a child's. He remembers the sun, always in his eyes, and the scraps of shade under trees. He remembers bodies. He remembers paper-thin skin and wide dark eyes and staring glassy ones. And he remembers, at the end of that interminable day, Mal's hand on the small of his back, guiding him into Serenity as he stumbled. Guiding him home. He remembers the silence at dinner. Even Jayne had said nothing.
There was no one time when Mal started steadying him instead of always pulling him off-balance. Maybe it was Miranda: the silent streets, the recording, and Mal's sudden determination, his decision. His war. Maybe it was after, when he lay on the floor, clinging to life and hoping against hope that the doors would open and River would be standing there, triumphant. There was a kind of peace in doing that when he heard Mal coming back, heard his dragging, halting steps. When he knew it wasn't for nothing.
It might have been the night that he and Kaylee argued. He'd moved to say something, touch her, do something -- and she'd pulled away, shaking her head. Mal's hand had touched his shoulder, keeping a gentle pressure, and he stayed seated while Kaylee stalked out.
"It's over, I reckon," Mal had said, softly. "Best leave her for a while. You'll be friends again soon enough."
And he'd been right.
After that, Simon had believed him when he said River was safe. When he said things would go smooth. Even though, quite often, they didn't.
When Zoe lay on his table, wound gaping, gasping out her life, his hands had trembled. Mal had touched his arm. "You fix her," he'd said, gruff and sure, like he thought Simon could've fixed her if she'd been hung, drawn and quartered. "Need my second in command."
"I'll do my best," he'd said. Mal had nodded.
"I know." His hand had stayed on Simon's shoulder for a moment, and then he'd withdrawn, leaving Zoe in his steadied hands.
He walks in a bubble of unreality now. It's like he's back on Miranda: all the stilled people, the silenced voices. The strange cold purity of the place that had forgotten human breath. He feels like he walks in the plague-town again, disconnected, a stranger.
"We could go back for her," Jayne says, cocking his gun. "Rescue her."
"Ain't nothing but a body by now. We need to get out," Zoe says.
"That what you said about Wash?" Jayne asks, and Simon hears Mal growling something at him: shut up or you don't want to repeat that or something like it. A moment later there's a touch: Mal's hand on his back. It cuts through the unreality, and Simon looks up.
"We could go back."
He shakes his head. "River wanted us to go on."
"That's right." Mal's hand stays there for a moment, then slips off. "We'll take what she gave us, then."
Mal finds him later, with his alcohol, where Kaylee's sobs still ring in his ears and the silence at dinner clings to him, wrapping him round. He doesn't ask, but his steady hand pours Simon another glass and then one for himself. Simon should punch him. It's his fault -- taking River on that job, letting her throw herself into the fray, letting him say that they should go on.
He takes the drink. "I'll be alright."
"You stayin'?"
Simon looks around at the bright room, the things River loved, the place that became her home. He looks at Mal, meets his steady gaze, feels the steady gravitational pull of a man who makes a crew out of nothing and makes them love him, makes them a home. "If she's anywhere, it's here," he says, quietly.
Mal nods, staring down into his drink. "An' we still need a medic."
Simon nods. It doesn't stop the tears -- doesn't stop him from drinking himself into a stupor that night. But Mal helps him to his bed, steady as though matching Simon drink for drink left no impression on him.
Pairing: None
Warnings: Angst, deathfic
Rating: PG
Summary: Simon doesn't remember when Mal started to steady him.
He's not sure when it first happened. He remembers a plague-stricken colony: the heat, the smell, the gloves between his skin and a child's. He remembers the sun, always in his eyes, and the scraps of shade under trees. He remembers bodies. He remembers paper-thin skin and wide dark eyes and staring glassy ones. And he remembers, at the end of that interminable day, Mal's hand on the small of his back, guiding him into Serenity as he stumbled. Guiding him home. He remembers the silence at dinner. Even Jayne had said nothing.
There was no one time when Mal started steadying him instead of always pulling him off-balance. Maybe it was Miranda: the silent streets, the recording, and Mal's sudden determination, his decision. His war. Maybe it was after, when he lay on the floor, clinging to life and hoping against hope that the doors would open and River would be standing there, triumphant. There was a kind of peace in doing that when he heard Mal coming back, heard his dragging, halting steps. When he knew it wasn't for nothing.
It might have been the night that he and Kaylee argued. He'd moved to say something, touch her, do something -- and she'd pulled away, shaking her head. Mal's hand had touched his shoulder, keeping a gentle pressure, and he stayed seated while Kaylee stalked out.
"It's over, I reckon," Mal had said, softly. "Best leave her for a while. You'll be friends again soon enough."
And he'd been right.
After that, Simon had believed him when he said River was safe. When he said things would go smooth. Even though, quite often, they didn't.
When Zoe lay on his table, wound gaping, gasping out her life, his hands had trembled. Mal had touched his arm. "You fix her," he'd said, gruff and sure, like he thought Simon could've fixed her if she'd been hung, drawn and quartered. "Need my second in command."
"I'll do my best," he'd said. Mal had nodded.
"I know." His hand had stayed on Simon's shoulder for a moment, and then he'd withdrawn, leaving Zoe in his steadied hands.
He walks in a bubble of unreality now. It's like he's back on Miranda: all the stilled people, the silenced voices. The strange cold purity of the place that had forgotten human breath. He feels like he walks in the plague-town again, disconnected, a stranger.
"We could go back for her," Jayne says, cocking his gun. "Rescue her."
"Ain't nothing but a body by now. We need to get out," Zoe says.
"That what you said about Wash?" Jayne asks, and Simon hears Mal growling something at him: shut up or you don't want to repeat that or something like it. A moment later there's a touch: Mal's hand on his back. It cuts through the unreality, and Simon looks up.
"We could go back."
He shakes his head. "River wanted us to go on."
"That's right." Mal's hand stays there for a moment, then slips off. "We'll take what she gave us, then."
Mal finds him later, with his alcohol, where Kaylee's sobs still ring in his ears and the silence at dinner clings to him, wrapping him round. He doesn't ask, but his steady hand pours Simon another glass and then one for himself. Simon should punch him. It's his fault -- taking River on that job, letting her throw herself into the fray, letting him say that they should go on.
He takes the drink. "I'll be alright."
"You stayin'?"
Simon looks around at the bright room, the things River loved, the place that became her home. He looks at Mal, meets his steady gaze, feels the steady gravitational pull of a man who makes a crew out of nothing and makes them love him, makes them a home. "If she's anywhere, it's here," he says, quietly.
Mal nods, staring down into his drink. "An' we still need a medic."
Simon nods. It doesn't stop the tears -- doesn't stop him from drinking himself into a stupor that night. But Mal helps him to his bed, steady as though matching Simon drink for drink left no impression on him.