River and Jayne fic #1: All the King's Horses and All the King's Men
Author: sandwch__zombie
Title: All the King's Horses and All the King's Men
Summary: There is a fine line between fixed and broken.
Fandom/Ship: Firefly. River Tam with River/Jayne Cobb undertones.
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Drama
Word Count (optional): 931
Notes/Warnings:
River sees them every night. Sometimes in different places, sometimes in the same cold, sterile laboratory. They crawl out of the shadows like scaled monsters...they fly from the corners of her shattered mind like bats, needles poking, prodding, pain.
Two by two, hands of blue. Two by two, hands of blue. Their aqua gloves stretch across their stale hands like a second, squeaky skin, and she tries to scoot away, but her body won't budge, and she wakes up with a scream lodged painfully in her throat, shooing them away, though they have already faded.
Simon doesn't come to comfort her and River rolls over to bury her face in the pillow, their prodding blue fingers replaced by the blackness of nothing. It's the dark she's really frightened of, she thinks, nails drawing blood from her palms. It's living, wriggling and reaching toward her with skeletal hands, so like theirs. It's a swimming pool of black, an ocean of night. She's under it, in it, buried between its cracks and nooks and she's drowning, asphyxiating, and unable to see or hear. It's different from the comforting black of space. She knows what's out there, knows she can find a planet, people, something, if she floats far enough, but in her head, there's nothing. Nothing but her, the never-ending darkness, and the choking pain of her screams.
She tugs on mahogany hair, rolls carefully out of her bed, and doesn't even wince when her long, already cold toes touch the frigid floor. Skinny arms wrapped around her midsection, she pads softly toward the mess hall. The only sounds she can hear beyond the whisper of voices are the humming of the engine and the soft echoes of snores coming from Simon and the Preacher-man's rooms. The mess hall is empty, the floor slightly warmer here, and she carefully slides out a chair, nose wrinkling at the high screech it makes as the legs yank against the floor, and curls up against the back, her legs folded against her chest, arms wrapped around her calves.
She reaches for a used copper kettle in the center of the table, and a small black china cup. Chipped, of course. She pours herself some ice cold, stale tea, and touches the edge of the cup to her lips. It smells like ash, tastes like it too, and she sticks her tongue out, carefully avoiding any contact with the liquid. She does this out of routine, something she'd always done before the Academy, before they scrambled her brains with their wires and blue fingers and her mind and rituals and life shattered like broken crystal.
She used to sit at the table with Simon and drink tea every morning, their innocent, casual conversation centering on nothing of great importance. It was comforting, but now, she has nothing to truly comfort her. Nothing to gather the broken shards and put them back together, no king's horses, no king's men. She's an irreparable Humpty Dumpty, a broken egg that can never be righted again. Simon thinks he can save her, and she thought he could too, with his warm hands on her face and his overprotective nature, his medications and so-called "cures," but he couldn't. She'd thought Kaylee could've saved her with friendship, Inara with kindness, but they couldn't either. Not even Mal could put her back together, with his blazing guns and heroic glory. She has to save herself, and maybe that's what scares her the most.
She doesn't jump when a grunt sounds from the doorway. She'd heard it a second before it could erupt from his throat like magma from a volcano. Jayne bends to look into the mess, and doesn't notice her at first, not until a shift of her body makes the chair squeak, and he straightens up, cursing when his head smacks against the doorframe.
"Gorramit girl," he mutters, ungracefully yanking out a chair and plopping down. She sets down her cup, staring at the glaring table, and he rolls his eyes, snatches the china from her fingers, and downs the stale liquid in one gulp before pouring some more.
Jayne's mind is warm and thorny, full of images and the sounds of gunshots. She ignores most of what she sees, but it's strange how really comforting it is. She never thought he would be the one she felt the most comfortable with.
"...ya doin' outta yer bunk?" she startles from her stupor, and looks up at him through tangled hair with unblinking eyes.
"Dream," she murmurs. "I always dream." Jayne nods, slides a bit of his unpeeled kiwi off his knife with his teeth, and she knows he understands. He dreams too, of Reavers and the unyielding black of space, of being hacked into bits, the skin ripped from his bones. Not as stale as her dreams of the Academy, full of blood and other things the girl shouldn't think of but the assassin does.
It's a switch she never wants to flip again. She wishes she could still be the sweet girl who went away four years ago, but she came back broken, the once organized folders of her thoughts blowing about her brain like leaves on the breeze. She feels awful for Simon. He left everything when he came to save her. Everything he promised their father, everything he wanted.
She tugs hard on her hair, wishing her brain would quiet.
"And all the king's horses," she sings, fingers tiptoeing across the table to steal back her ashy tea, "And all the king's men, couldn't put her back together again."
Title: All the King's Horses and All the King's Men
Summary: There is a fine line between fixed and broken.
Fandom/Ship: Firefly. River Tam with River/Jayne Cobb undertones.
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Drama
Word Count (optional): 931
Notes/Warnings:
River sees them every night. Sometimes in different places, sometimes in the same cold, sterile laboratory. They crawl out of the shadows like scaled monsters...they fly from the corners of her shattered mind like bats, needles poking, prodding, pain.
Two by two, hands of blue. Two by two, hands of blue. Their aqua gloves stretch across their stale hands like a second, squeaky skin, and she tries to scoot away, but her body won't budge, and she wakes up with a scream lodged painfully in her throat, shooing them away, though they have already faded.
Simon doesn't come to comfort her and River rolls over to bury her face in the pillow, their prodding blue fingers replaced by the blackness of nothing. It's the dark she's really frightened of, she thinks, nails drawing blood from her palms. It's living, wriggling and reaching toward her with skeletal hands, so like theirs. It's a swimming pool of black, an ocean of night. She's under it, in it, buried between its cracks and nooks and she's drowning, asphyxiating, and unable to see or hear. It's different from the comforting black of space. She knows what's out there, knows she can find a planet, people, something, if she floats far enough, but in her head, there's nothing. Nothing but her, the never-ending darkness, and the choking pain of her screams.
She tugs on mahogany hair, rolls carefully out of her bed, and doesn't even wince when her long, already cold toes touch the frigid floor. Skinny arms wrapped around her midsection, she pads softly toward the mess hall. The only sounds she can hear beyond the whisper of voices are the humming of the engine and the soft echoes of snores coming from Simon and the Preacher-man's rooms. The mess hall is empty, the floor slightly warmer here, and she carefully slides out a chair, nose wrinkling at the high screech it makes as the legs yank against the floor, and curls up against the back, her legs folded against her chest, arms wrapped around her calves.
She reaches for a used copper kettle in the center of the table, and a small black china cup. Chipped, of course. She pours herself some ice cold, stale tea, and touches the edge of the cup to her lips. It smells like ash, tastes like it too, and she sticks her tongue out, carefully avoiding any contact with the liquid. She does this out of routine, something she'd always done before the Academy, before they scrambled her brains with their wires and blue fingers and her mind and rituals and life shattered like broken crystal.
She used to sit at the table with Simon and drink tea every morning, their innocent, casual conversation centering on nothing of great importance. It was comforting, but now, she has nothing to truly comfort her. Nothing to gather the broken shards and put them back together, no king's horses, no king's men. She's an irreparable Humpty Dumpty, a broken egg that can never be righted again. Simon thinks he can save her, and she thought he could too, with his warm hands on her face and his overprotective nature, his medications and so-called "cures," but he couldn't. She'd thought Kaylee could've saved her with friendship, Inara with kindness, but they couldn't either. Not even Mal could put her back together, with his blazing guns and heroic glory. She has to save herself, and maybe that's what scares her the most.
She doesn't jump when a grunt sounds from the doorway. She'd heard it a second before it could erupt from his throat like magma from a volcano. Jayne bends to look into the mess, and doesn't notice her at first, not until a shift of her body makes the chair squeak, and he straightens up, cursing when his head smacks against the doorframe.
"Gorramit girl," he mutters, ungracefully yanking out a chair and plopping down. She sets down her cup, staring at the glaring table, and he rolls his eyes, snatches the china from her fingers, and downs the stale liquid in one gulp before pouring some more.
Jayne's mind is warm and thorny, full of images and the sounds of gunshots. She ignores most of what she sees, but it's strange how really comforting it is. She never thought he would be the one she felt the most comfortable with.
"...ya doin' outta yer bunk?" she startles from her stupor, and looks up at him through tangled hair with unblinking eyes.
"Dream," she murmurs. "I always dream." Jayne nods, slides a bit of his unpeeled kiwi off his knife with his teeth, and she knows he understands. He dreams too, of Reavers and the unyielding black of space, of being hacked into bits, the skin ripped from his bones. Not as stale as her dreams of the Academy, full of blood and other things the girl shouldn't think of but the assassin does.
It's a switch she never wants to flip again. She wishes she could still be the sweet girl who went away four years ago, but she came back broken, the once organized folders of her thoughts blowing about her brain like leaves on the breeze. She feels awful for Simon. He left everything when he came to save her. Everything he promised their father, everything he wanted.
She tugs hard on her hair, wishing her brain would quiet.
"And all the king's horses," she sings, fingers tiptoeing across the table to steal back her ashy tea, "And all the king's men, couldn't put her back together again."