It’s some time afterwards that it starts to sink in. When it’s quiet and still – after Simon has finally allowed himself to rest, and it was you who gave him the injection.
He lies in the infirmary now. Curled up on his side, dark lashes spread out across pale skin, Kaylee curved up around him. And you smile to yourself, because it’s funny - this role reversal. To be the one pulling the blankets up, checking the brow, feeling the warm/cold skin - the one who tends.
But as you had said, now it’s your turn…
It was mainly you who had administered to the others, all your hidden talents now exposed – come to the fore. All the secrets come to light. Simon’s knowledge and your clever gifts making light work of these heavy tasks.
And then of course there had been Jayne. He’d helped, far more than most.
Had been the one to go onto the bridge, to face that which not even Mal had been willing to see, had he been able to…see...through the red wash of blood, curtaining his eye. But he couldn’t, so Jayne had done this for him.
And when he came out again, after a long passing of time, you had had to wrap a wall around your mind. Cushion it in white noise, to stop the images slipping in, tumbling down. And the look in his eyes had been terrible – bleak, like the lonely cry of a bird across an empty sky.
You had warned yourself, upon seeing his face, not to visit his dreaming for some time, to leave space for new images to graft onto his mind, for new dreams to replace the ones that would come from this.
A shiver runs up your spine, becomes a shake and is gone…
Inara is with Zoe…and you chase your mind away from that as well. Push it in another direction, move it far from the sound of the low sobs, and the keening, and the feel of Inara’s hand smoothing her hair…your hair…
You give your head a shake, bring your mind to heel - focus instead on the boiling water in the kettle, on the cup of tea you are trying to make.
The leaves go in - now the water. The steady ritual of this is pleasant and safe. Stirring once around the cup, twice, a third time and then tap. This reassuring familiarity – of pottery in your hands, the feel of the heat transferring from the water through the ceramic and into the skin of your palm.
You inhale the warm damp smell - hold and release.
“You willing to share that?”
And it surprises you – that you had failed to notice his appearance. Feel your eyes widen in involuntary reaction.
He looks exhausted, and you wonder if you look the same to him. You feel it, this exhaustion through your body – like you’re a streak of butter spread thin across too much bread. You’d read this description once and now the meaning of the words is felt in your muscles, known by your body - your bones.
He sighs. Goes to reach for the kettle behind you, and you snap out of it. Sweep it from his hands, reach for a second cup.
“No. Sorry…I’ll do it”
And it’s strange to have such a lucid conversation with him. Can see that he feels the same - watch the uncertainty flicker across his face, read it in his eyes.
You try again…
“Sit…” your head motions to the table, and then, “I’ll make it.”
And he does. Sit…or rather pours himself across the wooden chair, drops his head back to stare up at the ceiling. And his entire frame says I’m weary, so weary, so weary…
You pad across to the table, place the cup down and take the seat alongside him. And you try not to think about the conversations that have been had around this wooden slab, of the laughter that was shared, and the voices that have since been stilled.
I’m a leaf on the wind…
You start, eyes darting sideways…force yourself to still, to shake this voice free from your mind. Let it go free…
Jayne’s voice is a dry whisper of surrender when he says “Girl, I’m so tired I don’t care if you’re going crazy. You can cut me up, paint me in red, until the sun don’t shine…just don’t disturb me whilst you do it.”
And it makes you laugh, a sad puff of air – and wonder at this ability of his to draw your smile in the midst of this.
“Sorry, I’m okay. Just waking dreams…memories is all. Anyway, you don’t have to worry anymore”, and you raise your hands in reassurance, “See look – no knives. I come in peace.”
And he snorts a tired laugh.
“Is that right? Well, finally- my luck has turned…”
And then you both fall silent, thinking of the unlucky turn that brought you both to this point in time. It’s awkward, because again - it all comes back to you.
Haven’t you made amends? Then again, perhaps you did, but the cost has been great.
He clears his throat, and shifts position. Takes a sip of the tea, attempts to offer you something in return.
“You did good back there…saved our bacon. Just wanted to say…well…thanks.”
And for some reason, this triggers a release of something you’d been holding in - battening yourself down against it. That it should be released from these quarters - that it should come from him, is unsettling. You are unprepared. Too late you feel the tell tale prickle start working its way across your eyes.
And then despite your best intentions, you let them come - these tears. You quietly bow your head and let them run their path down your cheeks, to pool upon the dark solid brown.
And this is a day of surprises, because there’s an unexpected weight upon your head, and you feel the gentle touch of his hand, the careful push of his fingers through your hair, stroking across this long silk curtain shielding your face.
And this gentle touch of his says solace….
Peace…
~
You’re still breathing hard, and that urgent need to move, to run, to race is upon you…like a horse at the gates, waiting for the starting pistol. You can feel the swift pace of your beating heart, because it’s still running whilst your feet are now still, and you have to remind yourself that you are safe now.
I am safe. I am safe. I am safe…
Fingers stroke the cold metal of the table you’re sitting on, confirm that this is indeed Serenity. You have made it home to her, and you welcome her promise of refuge.
Simon says, “This will sting mei-mei...but then I can stitch you.”
And he’s right, it does. Makes you grimace and frown from the pain, and then…there’s the cold tingle, the spreading numbness, across your shoulder blade as it begins to work.
It had been an ambush, or at least that’s what had been planned for you, but they hadn’t factored it all in, hadn’t considered all the permutations and variations. They had failed to develop strategies that would work.
But you had…as you always do.
And so you had flowed through them like your namesake, terrifying and beautiful in your power. Movements so fast the action and re-action merging together, making it impossible to tell the two apart.
Delicate hands snapping bone, crick-crack - stealing the breath, the beat, beat, beat of life...
Jayne had been there as well, moving with that powerful grace, that deadly instinct. So the two of you had been many hands…making light work together, of those that wished to hurt you.
He moves into the room now, comes to stand beside you, peers over your shoulder at the art work below.
“How’s it going Doc?”
Simon works upon your back, taking great care to stitch, precise, neat stitches upon your skin. Determined to leave as little scarring as possible. His secret hope – to alter history, to remove any record of these times that you now both find yourself living in.
“Good. It’s relatively shallow…should heal fairly quickly.”
And then these hollow eyes of his glance up at Jayne, and his voice is cold and tight with anger as he says:
“I hope you killed them. Every. Single. One of them…”
Jayne’s response is a low grumble, like shifting stone – so low that can you feel the bass vibrate through the air between you both. Feel it pass through your rib cage.
“With my own two hands…”
You stare straight ahead, listening to the unspoken words between them, feeling the heavy concern like a light rain that falls down, down, down within this room.
And then Jayne moves before you, looks into your face - mutters an oath.
He grabs a clean dressing from the bench, dampens it with water, and then gently lifts your hair back from your face and begins to wipe you clean - to wash away this light spattering of their blood that has blushed your cheeks rosy pink.
And as he does you watch his eyes…these dark blue stones before you.
~
It’s being agreed that you will hide in plain sight for a while. To give Mal and the others time to re-establish their contacts, to build these necessary acquaintances to enable Serenity to continue - for your refuge to remain.
And you are to play the part of a novice for some time…perhaps at least a month. This in turn will require constant movement between safe havens, and of course the knowledge, the special secrets…the training to carry the performance.
Simon is not happy with this, and he says as much at the dinner table, “I won’t have my sister whoring herself for safety!”
You know as soon as you hear these words that Mal will react, and he does. His voice cracks like a whip, is cold and deadly quiet as he says:
“I’m going to pretend that you didn’t just say that!”
Kaylee’s eyes grow wide, wide with concern…shifting first between your brother and then back to Mal. Unwilling and unable to choose sides, because how can one choose between these two loves of hers - this lover and her father-friend? Whilst Inara sits stiff in her chair – and you recognise this peculiarity of hers, you know the greater her emotional unrest, the tighter her posture.
She’s trying to make her voice heard above them both – but their voices are rising, a vocal crescendo, swirling up, up, up above you all.
And Jayne sits across from you - silent. Pretending to be a sleeping bear, but you know this is just an act, because you can feel him watching your face, and you know that he’s waiting for you.
It makes you curious as to how this can be the case, that he would know what’s in your mind - and it makes you think. You wily fox…you clever beast…
You rise to your feet – deliberately drop your cup, so that it falls, down, down to shatter across the floor. And it’s like the retort of a gun, this sound. It falls like a curtain across their voices - makes them silent.
You press your hands down your belly, smoothing the fabric against your skin. Study their faces each in turn, but let your gaze fall on Simon last, and you say:
“Simon – you are my brother and I love you, but this is my choice. I won’t be taken from one cage, only to be kept in another. It will be a cheap glamour and nothing more…an act…but play it well, I must...”
And then you hold out your hand to Inara, and your voice is soft but firm, as you ask her:
“Teach me…”
~
It’s a strange transition, this shift across into becoming this new role…to playing this character. And although it’s just a game, you will have to carry yourself as if you are one.
So you adopt the costume, and learn the secret rituals - the meaning behind each glance, each inflection of tone, and the proper actions to perform. You are a quick study – you always have been. A bright, shiny, clever girl…
Inara whispers these treasures to you, when you’re both cloistered together in her quarters - as she massages your skin, or when she’s brushing your hair to a dark brown shimmer before lifting it up, styling it high above your head.
She dresses you in heavy silks that slide cool and soft, like new skin across your frame, and paints the palms of your hands in the crimson red of your position. And all the while she talks to you, whispers these pearls of wisdom into your ear, sighs these stories that are only for you to hear.
And it’s these hands that you use now to pour your tea, as you sit at the table. They flash cream, red, cream as they move about preparing the leaves and water - as you perform your own private ritual of stirring.
Kaylee is excited by your appearance, and she coos at your hair, your dress and finally these hands. She asks, “Sure is a pretty colour. Say ‘Nara, why do the novices have red hands like that?”
And you notice Simon stiffen at the question, realise that he knows the answer…that he doesn’t like it being asked in association with you. Inara recognises this, and you hear this understanding in her voice as she explains:
“It’s traditional Kaylee…”
“Yeah, I’ve seen ‘em before, but I’ve always wondered…why’d they do it?”
Inara clears her throat, and her tone is stronger this time, more confident…professional. “It’s symbolic, of the novice’s choice to be a student of the mind, body and spirit. The red palms remind us of that.”
“Is that so?” And her girl-voice is soft with curiosity, and wonder. “How?”
And you can sense the growing discomfort in Simon, matched in turn by a growing agitation in Mal. But not Jayne…
His eyes are watching your hands, and they have a keen intensity, these eyes of his. They remind you of two little blue birds – or perhaps swifts, with their darting clever ways. You think to yourself that if you’re not careful, one day these hungry little birds will fly down and carry your hands far, far away.
You hear Inara try again, she’s trying to put a stop to this, to make it end…she says:
“The hands - when held in a certain way, remind us of the feminine…”
But it’s no good - Kaylee’s eyes are puzzled, you see more questions brewing in their depths. And now Simon is in agony - you can feel frustration and alarm rolling off him in waves. This must stop…
You take pity on him, and Inara - lean across to Kaylee, and quickly demonstrate with your hands. Her eyes grow wide with surprised shock, and then a rosy flush extends up her neck, rises to her cheeks.
She giggles in embarrassment, her eyes shining with laughter.
“Well…ain’t that something?”
And you smile at her in return, before glancing back across at him.
You see the smile held within his eyes slowly spread out, like warm honey across his lips, and you feel a slow, tipping warmth slick down inside your chest. Spread through your belly…
~
Inara would be angry if she saw you…
You’re lying on the walkway, looking down, peeking through the metal peep holes created by the steel pattern. Watching the steady motion of his arms below.
This is your favourite past time – your vice.
Watching the muscles taunt, relax, taunt, as he lifts, drops, lifts again - doing his pull-ups underneath you.
This is nice to watch, this slow shifting sinuous movement of muscle across his frame, this shine of sweat slicked across his shoulders and arms – oiled skin.
It reminds you of dreams you’ve plucked out of the night sky, of stories whispered by Inara – makes you think of low sighs and warm sensation.
He looks up at you, and the dark blue of his eyes capture your own – pin them to this spot, and you watch each other. They’re so warm these eyes of his, like a slow dripping lava into your mind, that you start to sweat a sheen across your forehead to match his own.
And now it’s just you, watching him, watching you, and the sound of his low ragged breath - this pant, pant, pant…like a wolf.
~
You’re lying on your stomach, and there’s the cool, wet tickle across your skin, as she paints the mehendi across your back. This swirling pattern of burnt red, a beautiful henna ivy, blossoms from the soft skin on the back of your hands, twines its way across your wrists to climb up your arms. Spills down your back…
Each delicate stroke telling the story of what it means to have chosen this path.
It makes you sleepy – lulled by the calm rise and fall of her brush across this warm parchment of yours.
She speaks to you, her mouth close to your ear, her voice low. A word of warning, a cautionary tale…
“You must be careful, River. Don’t toy with him…”
And your eyes go wide at this – that these words can fall free from her mouth, to rise, and drift like little bubbles about this room. To be discussed…
Surprise and embarrassment flare within, and a dash of resentment – it makes your spine stiffen beneath the stroke of her brush. Almost threatens the perfection of the pattern.
This prying is no good – it is unwelcome.
And these feelings simmer in your voice, so that the words are warm when they come out.
“Don’t worry yourself with this. This girl is grown…I can make my own decisions and live with my own mistakes!”
She falls silent – and you wait, eyes fixed on the dark silk of the pillow in front, until you hear the dip, tap, tap of the brush in the henna-ink.
Now the brush resumes its journey along your skin, and it continues like this for some time - her calligraphy flows across your lower back, continues over the swell of your hips and the curve of your buttocks.
And then she speaks again, this time her voice reaches your ears like a sighed whisper:
“Oh mei-mei, it’s not you that I’m worried about…”
~
You are walking with Kaylee, strolling through the busy markets of Persephone,
and there’s a warm breeze across your face. You move the parasol to
shelter your skin from the glare of the sun, from the curious glance of some
of those in the crowd.
The heavy silk of your dress makes a swishing sound against your legs as you walk, and she’s chattering beside you, her voice a buzzing bee in your ear, a continuous rising, falling, whirr of excitement and noise, harmonising with the sounds of this bustling crowd.
But you’re not really listening. Instead your ears are tuned to the soft pad, pad, pad of his steps behind you - this wolf of yours. Keeping pace with you both. You can feel the movement of his eyes up your spine, their heavy focus upon your lower back and hips, and you find yourself swing, swaying in response.
You’re focussed so intensely on the heavy press of these eyes on your skin, that you barely register the sound of a voice in front. He suddenly sweeps past you like a storm front, one hand tugging at your elbow – pushing you behind.
You hear him shout, “You shut your gorram mouth!”
And you realise that this fury is directed at a stranger, this unknown man - but you fail to listen or understand anything else that is said, because you’re leaning in, sheltering against his skin, this wall of muscle. Your man made shield...
And you are dizzied by this raging storm that he has become, this tornado that you know will sweep you up, up, up, and you wonder how you’ll ever find your way back home again. You have no shiny red shoes…
It’s strangely quiet, this shelter in the lee of his frame – comforting. And your hand slips out, touches his back, rests there - feels the bass rumble of his voice through your fingertips.
~
He takes you both back to Serentity, and Kaylee is quiet in the seat next to you. She holds her own counsel, but you can feel her eyes moving, darting back and forth between you both, first you and then Jayne…and you can sense a question in the air.
When you reach the ship, she doesn’t look you in the eye, just leaves you to try to scramble down off the mule by yourself. Which is impossible, as the heavy silk captures your legs, holds them tight.
Large hands encircle your waist, and then you’re being lifted up and out of the vehicle. You place your hands on these solid shoulders - let him slide you slowly down, down to the metal floor.
Your feet are on the ground, but his hands still remain - pressed against your waist, and you feel them squeeze, release, squeeze into the soft give of your skin. He leans in, brings his face close, so close that you can feel his wet / warm breath upon your skin, the short sharp hair of his chin tickles your neck.
You hear him inhale - long and deep, and hold it...
And your pulse starts to stumble, begins an insistent pat / pat, pat / pat in your chest.
He exhales this breath, and it sounds like a sigh - he says:
“You smell different…”
Your voice is a dry whisper, a ghost of itself. “It’s the oil…for the henna on my skin...”
And you feel his eyes flick across to study your arms, to follow this burnt red pattern up and under your clothes, before moving back across to yours.
“Huh, well now…is that a fact?”
And this wet / warm breath of his spills across your lips, into your mouth - so that you can taste the scent of him upon your tongue.
You tilt your head sideways to move your lips away from his, but his face follows yours, like a mirror image – it counters every movement. You feel this sun-hot heat of his skin upon yours…
There’s a skipping beat in your throat…
Words spill out of your mouth, like tumbling blocks. “It makes the pattern last longer…deepens the colour…”
And his face continues to dance with yours, eyes a dusk-like blue watching your own, as your heads dance together, dip and tilt, move close and then away, this strange push, pull between you – this chasing of your mouth.
It dawns on you, a sudden belief, that if his hands weren’t upon you now, holding you down, connecting you to this solid ground, that you would lift up, up - to drift free above in the air currents. That you need these solid hands upon you - this earth / fire balancing your water / air within…
As if from a distance, you hear your name being called, and you slowly realise that Inara is standing beside you. How could you have not noticed her arrival?
Ignored up until this moment, and she’s telling you that it’s now time to come inside, to rest from this midday heat, and you suddenly feel it. This hot, dry energy, burning through your skin, causing sweat to drip, drip, drip down your back.
Making you dizzy…
You let your hands drop from his shoulders – move away to follow her inside, climb up to the shadow of her doorway.
And all the time you feel the heavy weight of his eyes upon your back - this hungry coveting…
~
You can’t sleep, so you drift out to the kitchen - a restless wandering in the silence of the night. You plan to make tea. Tea to calm the mind, to bring you to rest…
But you hadn’t planned on this. His presence in this room.
His restless eyes fall upon your own…makes you hesitate in the doorway, neither in nor out, poised in limbo.
He holds a cup up, invites you in by saying, “Tea, right? I’ll make it…”
And now it would be rude, not to accept this offering, this common courtesy – so you move fully into the room, flow down these stairs, walk over towards him.
His hands are busy, so busy darting here and there around the small kitchen, and you notice that they shake slightly as he makes the preparations. You watch him put too many leaves into your cup, and you know that this will make the tea too strong, turn the pleasant bitter acrid taste past the point of preference.
You reach for the cup, to take it from his hands, saying:
“Here, let me…it’s okay.”
And this movement sends the tea container spinning off the bench, so that it twists, turns and falls, scattering tea as it goes. You gasp out loud, and stare at the precious indigo / green carpeting the floor beneath your feet, and he instantly dips down – kneels. Large hands sweeping this precious commodity up, placing handfuls back into the box.
His voice is low and reassuring, “Don’t worry, it ain’t no spilt milk. See…no harm done.”
You’re watching his head from above, the movement of his back and arms, the lean frame of him below you. You remember all those times you’ve lain above, watching the slow steady action of these arms – and he glances up, catches your eye, grows still.
Something kindles in this gaze, catches flame, and the growing look upon his face, makes your mouth go dry.
It feels just like a hot night when the late summer storm is about to break, and you find yourself waiting, waiting, waiting for something to happen.
And then it does…
One of his hands slowly, slowly reaches out towards the heavy silk of your wrap. You feel the fabric separate – to open beneath the push of his fingers, to give entry to his hand, and then the rough / smooth touch of him is resting lightly upon the skin of your calf.
You blink a slow blink, try to swallow this lump in your throat…
And those wolf eyes of his are upon yours again, holding you, fixing you to this spot, as you feel the slow, slow, delicate brush of his fingertips along your skin - this feather touch rising past your knee, up the inside of your thigh, to run across your skin out to your hip.
You feel a sinking deep, deep within, a warm flood of heat from high in your chest, travels down your legs, as these fingers of his make this slow trek upwards.
It makes you weak...so that you must lean back against the bench, to gain purchase on its wooden frame, as he rises up, to stand before you – a rising mountain.
And it’s like he’s blocking out the sun, consuming all the oxygen in the room, because suddenly you can’t draw enough breath, and you hear a pant, pant, pant in the room. Realise that this sound is you.
You can’t escape these sharp, hungry little eyes. They track every movement of your face, your head, your neck, and it’s hypnotising - this strong push / pull between you.
A wide, dirty smile spills across his lips…a grin of pure wicked intent, and your heart starts racing like a racehorse, or perhaps a landslide within your chest.
You open your mouth to say something…anything…but your voice has dried to dust in your throat, so that you move your lips – but utter no sound.
And all the time you feel this heavy burden of waiting, waiting, waiting…
And he knows this. Surely he does? Because suddenly his hand grasps your shoulder, steadies you upright against the bench, before creeping, slipping downwards, to come to rest at the opening of your wrap.
You feel one finger dip in, test the bare skin below, and his whole hand quickly follows. And you realise that you’d thought about this before, had wondered what it would be like...what he would do.
And now you know…because you can now feel his hand move with hot urgency upon your skin. He’s assured and skilled, and his calloused fingertips cup you, stroke the sensitive skin in such a way, they easily coax sound from your mouth, and you gasp out loud.
This sound, like some prearranged signal, causes him to move towards you, to engulf you in these wide, solid arms, and he breaks upon you like a wave. Clever, gifted hands skip across your body, burrow beneath the silk, and go to work upon the soft sweep of your skin. They tease, and push within, and dance upon your shivering flesh - while his mouth, lips and tongue launch a concerted attack across your neck, your jaw.
His sharp teeth bite against your neck…
And your breath is hitching high in your chest. A low throb-throbbing, deep down in your belly, in the damp slick places within, as you feel him lift you up, to sit upon the bench, pushes your knees apart with his hands, works his way in between your thighs.
Your hands skim across the muscle of his chest, his shoulders and those arms…those arms you like to watch so much, are tight, tight beneath the sharp stabbing of your nails as you hold tight. Feel him pull your hips forward towards him, and you’re groaning low sobs into his mouth, as this tongue pushes hard, soft against yours, his mouth a sipping, silky softness against yours, vaguely recalling that he never kisses on the mouth, and you know that you’ve just made a liar out of him.
Have turned this notion of his on its head…
And then you have no more time for thought, every cell in your brain is focused on this hot, pain / pleasure press of him against you…and the sobbing growl that you can’t be sure is not you, and then you feel him slide in…and you both still for a moment, your wild wide-eyed brown gazing into his dark blue.
His wolf eyes…
And then the two of you begin to slide as one.
~
Epilogue
You’re reading. Stomach flat against the mattress, raised up on your elbows – an interstellar Sphinx.
His hand slides up your flank, tickles against your waist, back, upper arm - pushes your hair aside, off your shoulder, so that he can kiss your ear.
Can lap at this exposed shell of cream…
You say, “Don’t…I’m reading!”
But his warm tongue wraps around – this clever mouth breathes hotly into your ear…and you feel your limbs slacken, the warm sticky simmering low in your belly.
He says, “Reading, huh? I thought you had more ‘n enough book smarts for the both of us …”
And now those fingers skitter across your body, gaining access to pinch and pry, to stroke across tender areas – to make your breath heavy in your chest.
This is a game you both like to play, and now you play your part by pouting. Try to swat these buzzing hornet hands of his away…
“Stop that! I want to read my book!”
But this is a folly, and you know it well, because how can you stop this wolf?
This animal who will blow your house down?
This is his cue. You feel the sudden absence of his hard, heavy weight across your back. You hear him growl – hear him say:
“Then read your book…I don’t mind…”
And then there’s the crackle / snap of static electricity as his shirt comes off, the click / tap of belt buckle coming undone - and the metallic purr of his zipper.
Those large paws now return to you, sliding up your thighs, pushing the skirt of your dress up, wreaking havoc upon your skin. Pulling your hips up high, high towards him, making your back curve, arch over - his hands insistent and firm…
And your mouth is dry, your eyes falling shut, dark lashes fanning out upon
your cheeks – pretending to read. Whilst your pulse starts to thrum
in your chest, beats a rapid tempo against your throat…
Feedback Niz4