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Patterns
by Nicola
Rating: PG
It has become a routine: Wash, River, the stars. And for a short time, nothing and no one else.
Save in the case of emergencies (including, thankfully for him, those involving his wife and very little clothing), nobody else used to come up to the cockpit after dinner—it was always his place. He doesn't begrudge sharing it with her (although sometimes he wishes she'd stay still). In fact, he almost appreciates the company—misses her when she's not there (playing with Kaylee, taunting Book, or curled in Simon's arms after hours).
They're flying closer to the Core (business on Persephone in two days), much to Mal's displeasure. He could do without the presence of the Alliance, but Wash prefers the views closer to the center; wistful trails of ether, slanted through with gaudy blaze. He smiles faintly as he imagines the people down below; he wonders whether on a different planet, the populace has grown confident enough to try juggling herons, or possibly pelicans.
"Infinite. Long as a piece of string. Short, too," she says, her voice gauzy and thin. "Yo-yo. Back and forth"—she's talking faster suddenly, strangely excited—"Nowhere to go. Circles and spinning. Can't hide. Can't hide when you always come back to the same spot. No"—her voice slows again—"can't do that . . . can't ever . . ."
Wash has learned not to respond to her; not try and make sense of these streams of consciousness that she chokes out. Attempting to decipher her unprovoked monologues merely gives him a headache. He likes to listen, though—let the words wash over him; the changing tempo, the strands of emotion frayed through her voice. Maybe there's something subliminal in there that he'll pick up on; maybe one day she'll speak and he'll finally understand.
Or maybe not.
He glances over at her. She's staring rapturously out into space; for a moment quietened by the vastness. "Swallow you whole," she says abruptly, as if reading his thoughts. "Not such a bad meal. Full of protein! Sugar an' spice!" She smiles widely.
Wash finds himself echoing her smile. He lets his gaze slide back out the cockpit window, feeling contentedly full of stars and space and things that don't make sense. She drifts around the enclosed space of the cockpit like a trail of pale smoke. It's a tickle on the edge of his consciousness as she glides silently around him.
"The universe sleeps." He starts. She's very close by, a breath away from his ear. He blinks and she's drifted away again.
". . . 'verse never sleeps," he says, forgetting himself.
She smiles mysteriously. "Everything sleeps."
Before he is able to give himself a headache working out what the hell she might mean, the cockpit door is pushed open. Simon appears, looking grave.
"Hey," he says uneasily. Wash guesses the greeting is intended for him, but Simon's eyes follow River.
"Are you having a good time?"
This question is not meant for him, but Wash finds himself contemplating it anyway.
"Time. Doesn't matter," River answers. "It's like the stars. They explode, but look—they're always the same. Patterns on velvet robes."
"Mei mei . . ." Simon whispers, staring into her eyes. He adjusts his voice, smoothing out the spikes of emotion into a clinical doctor monotone. "Time for bed," he says neutrally.
His words appear to hit River like a sleeping pill. Her arms reach instinctively around Simon's neck. He lifts her into his arms; her body curls contentedly against his, her head finding a place against the curve of his neck. They fit together like a wrongly solved jigsaw puzzle; incorrect pieces jammed side by side.
He's gotten better at touching her. The thought pops unbidden into Wash's head. Girl in a box: a quivering mess that spilled into Simon's arms. Wash remembers the hesitant, flinching way his hands used to grasp hers; caresses that seemed like they might break her. Now his hands tremble only lightly. He lifts her more securely, his left arm wrapping around shoulders, his right hoisting her legs; the tremor is gone, but something flickers in his eyes.
"Goodnight," Wash says loudly and a little awkwardly, feeling as if he has intruded on a private moment.
Simon nods, but Wash can tell he has been reduced to mere background noise. Simon is already thinking about putting River to bed; whether she will sleep peacefully; what sedatives she might require; if tomorrow will be lucid or crazed.
Wash sighs and refocuses on the stars. ". . . goodnight moon," he hears River whisper as the cockpit door clangs shut. Wash smiles and leans back in his seat.
October 2005
Note: for Tara.
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