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--
Mal has taken to strolling round the ship at night, keeping the perimeter secure, but mostly, distracting himself from sleeping – from dreaming. The gentle hum of the engines purr through the walls, soothing him like a restless sleep won't. It ain't like Mal's never suffered from bad dreams and the like before, and even now, broken images of the war and the dead and the ones that ain't dead but he dreams are filter through his subconscious. But it's not them troubling him. It's the ones that aren't nasty, having touches instead of punches and kisses where there should be bullet wounds. And worst of it is, it's not Inara, or Kaylee, or even Zoe. It's little River who's half-crazy still, and fights better'n he does, less of a girl and mostly woman now, but still Mal can't convince himself that dreaming about her ain't wrong.
And it's kinda ironic, or some other fancy word that Inara or Simon or even the girl in question would know, that in his nightly stroll to escape dreams of her, he finds River in the kitchen with a sugar smear on her cheek and a paper icing bag in her hands, piping away at a cake-shaped lump of protein. If Mal weren't trying very hard not to, he might have an urge to lick off the sugar smear.
"You baking?"
River's eyes flick from her cake to him for a split-second in acknowledgement, before returning to her icing. "It's Jayne's birthday - the big four-oh," she tells him. "14610 days since his mother brought him into the world; though based an a date-system of a dead-planet that doesn't even circle it's sun evenly, it's hard to be precise."
"You shouldn't bother making an effort for him, darlin'. Not like he even wished you a good one on your last milestone."
She shrugs. "It's good practice."
She's paying a lot of attention to the cake, more so than him anyway, but he figures she doesn't mind the interruption so he draws up a chair. "You plan on baking for everyone, 'cause I conjure with your genius you don't need much practice at anything."
River glances up from her icing and gives him a sarcastic-frown. Right, of course she don't need practice at baking, but that still doesn't explain... "Practice for being a good girl. A good wife. I'll knit and I'll bake and someone will want me."
Mal quietens for a moment, a little surprised at her. He thinks the girl is anything but undesirable, and even if she is still a little on the crazy side of sane, he can't imagine man nor beast that wouldn't want her. Hell, they wouldn't have even been having this conversation in the dead of the night if it wasn't for his own wants. His hard heart breaks a little bit for the girl; more Alliance go se filling up her brain where there should be laughter and life, and instead nonsense words about what a proper girl should be making her feel less than whole. And it makes him feel a little bit worse because he still wants this girl who ain't quite right, no matter how much he and the rest of the crew kid themselves that she's mending.
"Of all the crazy things you've said, that is the craziest," Mal starts, and struggles not to listen to himself. He's gotta convince herself she's wanted without convincing himself it's okay to want her. "You ain't gotta do none of those things to be wanted. Did you ever once see Zoe bake for Wash? You can fight better'n anyone I know, and do damn near anything else you put your mind to – man'd be a fool not to want you."
River gives a sad smile and a little shrug, and returns to her work. Mal doesn't know what else to say – it's been a long time since a girl's been crying on his shoulder, not since he told Elle Bridges he was leaving Shadow when he was eighteen – and he feels ill-equipped to deal with her. Ain't no guns or punches that'll sort out this situation, and it's just another reminder to himself why he'd be no good for her because he's not much use with words and feelings.
He sits and watches her work; ain't nothing else he could be doing, and it's better watching her work than having dreams about her that he'll only hate himself for later.
Her hair falls over her shoulder several times, almost brushing the cake, and each time she impatiently flicks it back before continuing with her icing, only to have it fall again and disturb her. Each time she hisses and sighs with impatience and Mal can't help but chuckle because for all her brains, she lacks the odd bit of common sense.
Eventually, sensing they might end up with fistfuls of cake splattered on the walls if he don't do something, Mal slips out of the chair and stands behind her chair. He scoops her hair up and begins to braid it, praying that Jayne or Zoe don't walk in, 'cause he'd never hear the end of it otherwise. Her hair is soft in his fingers, wrapping around him instead of the other way around, and he begins to wonder what it'd be like to get lost in all of her.
--
Jayne's birthday is successful, and River is pleased by this, even if it was Kaylee that did most of the planning. Everyone enjoys her cake, and this makes her feel accomplished.
The ship and crew fall back into normalcy quickly after the celebration, but Serenity feels too hot against River's skin. Warm rushes of air wash past her, like the memory of humid summers on rim planets that she's never known, and she can't get Mal out of her head. Things have quietened in her head over the years; she can see through the din in her head and pick what she wants to listen to, but lately she can't keep the Captain's thoughts and feelings and frustration from running through her veins.
She feels surrounded by him, from when they share the tiny cockpit to when they're on opposite sides of Serenity, and rather than the claustrophobic, panicky mania that too many thoughts in her brain used to excite, she feels protected, and safe. She can't tell if that's just 'cause of him, or because of the thoughts he's filling her with, but River likes it.
--
Since the first venture planetside in the weeks before the whole Miranda incident, Mal has taken to keeping River at his side when they go to trade. Jayne's trigger-happy and mighty useful to have around, and Zoe is always reliable, but having a psychic on the team is too tempting to ignore, especially with the tendency of their jobs to end up with bloodshed and violence.
Despite this job being as near to a milkrun as his crew is ever gonna get, Mal is still more comfortable with River at his side. Jayne is at his other side, but more to look menacing than actually do any damage, Mal hopes. This is the first well-paid job they've had in awhile, and they're running low on ammo so Mal certainly hopes his contact is planning on keeping it civil.
"Ramón," Mal says, nodding in greeting, as the contact approaches.
Ramón says nothing but looks around the valley edgily. There's plenty of nooks and crannies among the two cliff-faces of the valley for an enemy to hide, and Mal knows Ramón has made enemies aplenty on this moon.
"Them Baxters still being a mite troublesome, I see," Mal observes, noticing his old acquaintance's twitchy nature. Mal has never known this rivalry not to exist, and if Ramón is edgy, it might mean trouble is afoot. He makes a subtle signal toward Jayne to be on the look-out, and he immediately begins to loosen a pistol from his webbing.
Mal is anxious to make the trade and get the hell off this rock, and is just about to suggest as much when River steps forward. "Crazy bellringer was right, there's money to be made in a place like this."
"There sure is, darlin'," Mal replies. As fond of her as he is lately, he don't want nothing going sour and would just as soon get the hell outta the place than listen to her nonsense words. "Now if we just get these goods exchanged for some cash, we'll be on our way."
"No, not yet."
"River?"
"There's a tumbleweed blowing and the wind is whistling. Time for a showdown."
"River, what in the gorram hell are you-"
"Duck!"
And Mal, with years following the orders of her panic-stricken voice as natural as breathing does as he is told, and drops to the dust-dry ground. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Jayne roll away from them, crawling towards the safety of the rockface of the valley. He doesn't know what is going on but knowing his luck it involves bullets and angry cowboys.
River remains standing next to his prone body, and he reaches for her ankle, pulling her down towards him. If she's right – and gorram it, she usually is – there'll be a gunfight raising hell above them in less than a minute, and he doesn't fancy River being caught in the middle of it. He tries, 'though a little hopelessly, not to look up her floaty skirt, at her slim bare legs, and up, or glimpse her breasts as she eventually falls down next to him.
The moment River hits the ground, barely seconds after her warning, gunfire starts rattling overhead, and after a few cracks of a pistol, Mal sees the first of Ramón's men fall. Mal thanks a God he no longer has any faith in for the girl's premonition, and, what shocks him more than a little is that he was more grateful for her individual safety than the all of them, and not just because her brother happens to wield big pointy needles at him. It ain't that he's never been one to look after his crew, far from it, but he's never put one before another afore.
Still, even though they've managed to duck out of harm's initial way, Mal still ain't best pleased at being shot at, nor the disturbing train his thoughts are taking. "Gaoyang zhong de guyang," he mutters. "Couldn't leave his own war at the homestead for one gorram day. C'mon," he indicates the opposite side of the rockface to which Jayne had disappeared into, closer to them, and she nods, getting the message. They're low on ammo, and there's three of them against two sets of very angry, pistol-wielding idiots. Not odds he wants to challenge. "We're gonna hide over there 'til there ain't no dying likely in our near future."
Ramón, and presumably the Baxter clan, are far too concerned with each other to notice the two figures crawling away, and they make to safety with relative ease. Mal tries to push River toward a different crevice in the rock where she could slink further out of harm's way, but she's having none of it, and firmly ensconces herself between the rock and Mal. Mal feels mighty uneasy with her wriggling around so close to him, working thoughts to the forefront of his mind (and certain other portions of his anatomy) after he thought them safely buried.
"Don't worry," she whispers into his chest. Her breath puffs through the thin shirt, and Mal closes his eyes, trying to think of something disturbing to will away certain reactions to her nearness. Jayne doing - Jayne. That was disturbing enough. "No one'll find us here. We're safe."
"It ain't that I'm worryin' about, darlin' - 'cept you already know that."
She gives him a half-smile, but says nothing more for the time being, seeming content to listen to the gunfire sound to their left.
"You're oddly quiet," Mal remarks after a moment, trying desperately - and mostly uselessly - to distract himself from the feel of her pressing against him. She's just a girl (a quiet, deadly girl who was growing up fast) and he has no right to be thinking nasty sorts of thoughts about her, especially when her brother is mighty handy with injections and poisons, and throws a mean punch. Not to mention, of course, that she could have him a messy puddle on the floor within a couple of minutes if she wanted.
"There's no din in my head," she replies, and shifts against him. Mal bites back a moan.
"You finally figured out how to tune me out?" Mal asks, somewhat relieved. If she weren't reading him then there's no chance of her picking up on his less than captainy thoughts.
"They're just an echo. Same words, just a second later." She pauses, and Mal is about to ask exactly what she means, when she runs her hands up his arms and continues, her voice a little huskier, her breath a little quicker. "I like the feel of you pressed against me too, Mal."
Mal's eyes widen in considerable shock, and he struggles against her insistent little body. But for every inch he shrinks back into the crevice, she is there, pressing against him, hands slipping to places that they shouldn't.
"Stop it," Mal hisses. He don't think to question her motive, or wonder what she'd want in an old soldier like him, he just wants to get her out of harm's way. "You get all of these funny notions out of your head now, you hear me?" He takes her slender wrists from his arms and firmly pushes her away, and then brings his hands to rest on her shoulders. "Just because I was having some damn near criminal thoughts, doesn't mean you should be adoptin' them your ownself."
River shirks his hands off her shoulders and stares fiercely at him, her eyebrows drawing into a tight line. "You said I was lovable. That I could be a fighter and a woman and be loved."
"So?" Mal says, a little indignantly, still trying to keep his voice down so that the remaining Baxsters - or worse, Jayne - don't overhear them and come running, guns ablazing.
"So why won't you love me?" Her voice is a little desperate, and a little frustrated, and Mal's a horrible mix of emotions himself; half of him wants to pull her to him, hold her body against his and forget what what a lecherous old man that would make him, while the rest of him just wants to run the hell away from her and this mess.
"I know you want me," she tells him, a little above a whisper.
"River," Mal starts, sighing. He can't run away, because while touching her would be wrong, running away would be plain cowardice. "It ain't that simple, it-"
She cuts him off; River pushes him back against the rock and presses herself right against him, leaving no room for an escape. She looks up at him with one of the most lucid of gazes he's ever been the receiving end of from her, and then lifts herself up to kiss him. Something hot and achingly familiar swoops through Mal's gut at the press of her lips on his, and he knows that this is wrong and he's gonna rot in the special hell for this, but at the taste of her he no longer can find it in him to care. Leave me to rot in hell 'til the end of the 'verse, he prays to the God he doesn't believe in. But let me have this little slice of heaven in her.
-- end.