home * fandoms * firefly * bottom WARNING: If you haven't read the warning on the index page, go back and read it. If you don't, and you don't like what you find here, don't come crying to me. Title: Intersections Author: Eleanor K. Fandom: Firefly Pairing: Mal/Simon Rating: PG Posted: 14 Jan 2003 Spoilers: for War Stories, minor for Serenity Email: emungere@gmail.com Series/Sequel: Sequel to "Fuzzy" and "Tokens" Disclaimer: Non nobis, Joss, non nobis; sed nomini tuo da gloriam. Warnings: ANGST. Notes: Thanks to Cabiria for beta reading and extreme patience. Translations: "Chur ni-duh" means "screw you", "ta mah duh" means "motherfucker". ..___.. "Is he awake?" Mal recognizes Wash's voice, but keeps his eyes closed. Wash will want a destination, and he doesn't have one in mind. Hasn't, frankly, been able to stay awake long enough to think of one. "Yes," Simon replies. "He doesn't look awake." "He's awake. He's not snoring." That's just too much. Mal abandons his tactical silence. "I do not snore." "Told you he was awake. And you do, you know." Mal sighs and opens his eyes. Should have kept his mouth shut. "Hey, Captain." "Wash. You wanted something?" "Just wondering where to take us. We're a good long way from the skyplex, but..." Wash shrugs. "There's a lot of space out there. I'm all for the running away, but is there a direction we should be running in?" Mal looks up at the ceiling, wishing he'd refused the last round of painkillers Simon offered him. They cloud his mind, and he doesn't much like them, but Simon was so insistent. Doesn't want him to hurt. And maybe he's not as good at saying no to Simon as he should be. "Wash, I'm not sure he's really up to this--" "He's plenty up to this, thank you very much," Mal cuts in. Pushing the painkillers is one thing. Telling him he can't run his ship is another. He slaps his brain around a little, but there isn't a planet he can think of that he would call safe, and he needs safe right now. He hates to admit it, but he is out of action for the time being. Way out of action. "How are we fixed for supplies?" he asks suddenly. "We're good. Full up on just about everything." "Good. We got to get that dermal whatsit back to the Councilor or whoever eventually, right?" Simon nods. "Her planet's got that desert, where the terraforming failed. Put us right in the middle of that, and crank the sensors up. I want to know if anything gets within a hundred miles of us." As far out of action as they can get. "Can do, Captain." Wash hesitates. "How are you feeling?" "The doc tells me I'll be up and bossing people around again in no time." They both shoot a look towards Simon after that comment, but Simon is wearing an astonishingly good poker face. "Right," Wash says. "I'll just get to that then." But he doesn't. He hovers, looking like he has something else on his mind. "Mal...what you did..." "Yeah?" Mal asks sharply. He can't relax until Wash is gone, and all this looking able and alert is taking its toll. "I just..." "Spit it out or get to work. What am I paying you for anyway?" Wash's eyes narrow for a second. He ducks around the corner without saying another word. Mal lets his eyes close again. He wishes Simon wouldn't keep telling him to rest. It's all he wants to do, but having someone tell him to do it makes him want to do just the opposite. "You should talk to him." Mal sighs mentally. "I was trying to take your advice and get some sleep here, Doc. Is this a conversation we need to have right now?" "I think so." Simon's voice is unusually chilly. "He feels awful, you know. All he needs is a few words from you. Do you enjoy watching him suffer?" "Suffer? Wash? Never saw a less suffering guy." There is silence for a moment. "Get some sleep, Captain." Shit. Like that's possible now. "He didn't look upset," Mal says. He realizes he sounds like he's trying to convince himself. "He got out and left you behind." Simon doesn't say 'you idiot,' but Mal can hear it anyway. "Wouldn't you be upset?" "If Zoe'd picked me instead? I'd be mad as hell. Wasn't Wash's job to stay behind. He knows that." Doesn't he? Of course he does. "Does he?" "I thought I was supposed to be getting some sleep." Simon doesn't answer, but there is an emphatic quality to his page-turning now. As tired as he is, his mind worries at what Simon has told him. He still finds it hard to believe Wash has been jealous of him all these years. It's about the stupidest thing he's ever heard. He always thought the constant low-level anger Wash directed at him was some kind of anti-authoritarian thing. One thing he is sure of: Wash with constant low-level guilt will be far worse. If Simon is right, he'll have to do something about it. Unfortunately, Simon is seldom wrong. "And by the way, I do not snore." "You really do," Simon replies calmly. "I do not. Ask anyone." "What, anyone who's slept with you? A fairly exclusive list I should think." "Ask Zoe, she'll tell you." He could practically hear Simon's raised eyebrow. "Will she?" "You don't get private rooms during wartime." "There were mortars, I assume? Gunfire, that sort of thing? She might not have heard." "There were quiet nights. Mostly when everyone ran out of ammo, but there were quiet nights." He pauses. "I don't snore." He feels a stab of pain as his hands clench, fingers digging into already abused palms. Simon is sure to ask. Never should have brought up the damn war. He never does, and he can't imagine what possessed him. That was practically an invitation. But all Simon says is, "Even if you didn't then, which I'm not granting, it doesn't mean you don't now." The sudden rush of gratitude Mal feels is simply embarrassing. He turns his head away. "No one else has complained." "I'm not complaining." He can hear the smile in Simon's voice. "I think it's cute." Mal opens his mouth and closes it again. Something tells him it would be good to let this one go. But...cute? "I don't snore. And I ain't *cute*." "Go to sleep, Captain." This time Simon's voice is warm and amused, and Mal finds himself relaxing almost against his will. Sleep is creeping up on him, and he doesn't resist. *** When Mal wakes again the room is dark. A faint glow from the hall shows him Simon slumped asleep in his chair, book face down on his chest. He checks the clock. It has been more than twenty-four hours since he got back to Serenity, and he hasn't left this bed since he got into it. Simon's bed. Simon's sheets, too. He doesn't know when these replaced the rough cotton ones he provided, but they feel awfully good against his skin. Not silk, but they remind him of the way Simon's shirt felt against his face for that brief moment, cool and smooth. Only he's promised himself he won't think about that. He sits up slowly and swings his legs off the side of the bed. His vision goes dark for a second, and his head pounds with his pulse. His legs ache when he gets up. Ache is sort of an understatement, actually. Every muscle screams at him to sit the fuck back down, and when he reaches out to brace himself his arms add their protest. He can feel his knee joints grind. He feels old. The ship is quiet, humming gently as she takes them away from danger. He stops to slide a hand up her wall. He doesn't know her moods as well as Kaylee does, but there is a comfort there. He knows what she should sound like, and he doesn't sleep well planetside any more. The quiet wakes him up. He shuffles into the cargo bay, automatically checking the locks, as if closing the airlock is something any of them would forget with hard vacuum outside. That done, he takes a long look at the stairs. On the one hand, his bunk is up there. He's already sick of Simon's room, with its attendant guilt over kicking the doc out of his own bed. Mal figures if he can make it up all those stairs Simon will have to agree that he's well enough to move out. On the other hand, he's not sure he can make it up all those stairs. No pain, no gain. No guts, no glory. And other crap like that. He starts up. It only takes about five minutes to make it to the second level, which he figures isn't bad. He wonders how the hell the bottoms of his feet can hurt. Niska never got below the waist--for which he makes a mental note to feel grateful when he has the energy. Simon was right; it could have been a lot worse. Panting on the top step, he looks up at the next flight. Not just yet. He glances around, and his eyes light on Inara's door. Knock? Nah. It's late. She might be sleeping. He opens the shuttle door a crack and peeks inside. There is light, so he pulls it open and walks on in. "Mal!" He's never known anyone who can shriek as genteelly as Inara. He looks around and spots her by the curtain of fabric that separates the shuttle part of the shuttle from the sex shop part of the shuttle. "What?" "Can't you ever knock? *Ever*? I'm not even *dressed*!" "You look dressed to me. Hell, you're wearing more clothes right now than I've ever seen on you before." This is true. The loose gray pants and faded black shirt cover her from neck to ankles. It's not her normal style, and there is a sizeable hole in one of the knees, but it's not like she's naked or anything. "I'm not-- Can't you just-- Mal, leave! You can't just come wandering in here in the middle of the night!" As she speaks she pulls a rust and gold colored robe off a hook and clutches it against her. "I'm not even wearing make-up," she says in a quieter voice. Mal frowns at her and more or less collapses into a seat. "You look fine. What's the problem?" She sighs and tosses the robe on the bed, muttering something that he can't hear. "What was that?" "I said, I should have known." Then the penny drops. "Mal, what are you doing here? You should be in bed." She comes over to sit by him and flutters and fusses. "Are you all right? Do you want me to call Simon?" "I'm fine. Just out for a walk and thought I'd say hi. Hi." "Hi." She peers anxiously at him. "Huh. You're really not wearing make-up. And your hair's sort of..." "Sort of what?" she asks in a don't-you-dare tone. He shrugs and doesn't dare. He didn't come to pick a fight after all, and it doesn't look bad as such. It's just really pulled back tight, which makes her look a bit surprised in the eyebrow department. And no make-up, which looks weirder than he thought it would. She subsides. "Are you sure you're all right?" "Don't I look all right?" He gets an irritated glance for that, which is probably fair. Judging from the amount of pain he's in and from the way his lip keeps splitting open at the least provocation, he's guessing his face has seen better days. It's kind of morbid maybe, but he'd like to see the bruises before they fade, and he wasn't about to ask Simon for a mirror. He pokes at his lip again, and his finger comes away bloody. Again. Dammit. Can't seem to leave that alone. Looking around for something to wipe it on, he spots Inara's dressing table, complete with tissues--and mirror. Two for one. Shiny. He lurches upright before she can offer to retrieve the tissues for him and lowers himself into the seat, blotting his lip. He looks in the mirror. Wow. He's been beat up before, but he's never seen quite so much of his face turn green all at once. There are the more classic purples and blues, too, but it's mostly green. He touches the neat line of stitches by his hairline. Simon did that. It's been less than a year, and already he's lost count of the number of stitches Simon has put in his skin. "The bruises will fade, Mal. I could--" She stops. He meets Inara's eyes in the mirror. "What?" "Nothing." She shakes her head. "I don't suppose you mind looking like that." "What's that supposed to mean?" She taps at a bottle on the table. "It's good for covering up bruises." "You sound like you got some experience with that." "You can't look like that when you...do what I do." "No, I guess your clients wouldn't much like paying for damaged goods. Unless they were the ones doing the damaging." He holds her gaze. "You're gonna tell me if anything like that happens while you're on my ship, right?" "Mal..." He picks up the bottle. "None of this. Just tell me. And you don't got to worry about any sword fights. That sort got no honor. You just got to put 'em down." She gives him a watery smile. "How did we end up talking about my bruises?" He looks back at his reflection. "You're gonna tell me, right?" She nods, finally. "Yes, Mal. I'll tell you. I doubt it will ever happen again. It was a very long time ago." The mirror and his reflection both start to swim in front of his eyes. "Good. That's good." He tries to stand, and darkness descends, sliding down like ink poured over his eyes. *** "Mal? Can you hear me?" That's Simon's voice. Mal thinks he should say something, but his tongue is thick, and his mouth is dry, and it's so much easier to keep quiet. Not like Simon sounds worried or anything. "Mal, I need you to answer me." Shit. He has to answer now. Does Simon really know him that well? With effort he makes some kind of grunt. As if in reward, a cool hand strokes across his forehead. "I'm glad you're back with us. Next time perhaps you'll listen to me when I tell you to rest." "I'm not in your bed." The sheets are wrong. These are silk, the slippery kind. There is a pause before Simon answers, and his voice sounds odd. "No. This is Inara's room. Do you remember getting here?" He has to think for a second, but then it comes back. "'Course I do. I'm not ruttin' brain damaged, Simon." "Really?" It is Simon's sniffy, huffy voice. "You could have fooled me. What were you thinking? Oh, never mind. I don't suppose you were thinking at all." "I just got beat up a little. It's not like I'm seriously hurt." "Open your eyes, Mal." He does, and Simon's face is very close. "You have just about exhausted your physical resources," Simon says, using his slow and careful explaining-to-idiots voice. "You have internal injuries. You need rest." Simon's expression hardens. "And you know that. Otherwise you wouldn't have snuck out while I was asleep." Mal sits up, an arm coming solicitously around his back despite Simon's thunderous expression. He looks around. Inara is standing off to the side, her arms wrapped around her stomach. She looks cold. "Are you all right?" she asks. "I'm fine. The doc's overreacting as usual." He gets his feet on the floor, ignoring the head rush. He says his good nights to Inara and heads for the door, very aware that he probably wouldn't have made it to his feet without Simon's bracing hand on his back. Out in the hall, he makes it to the stairs and sits down hard. Simon sits beside him. "You're an idiot," Simon tells him. He leans his face in his hands and then jerks away again. It hurts. "Probably," he sighs. "I didn't want to throw you out of your own bed." "I liked having you there just fine," Simon says softly. Mal glances at him sharply, but there is no hint of innuendo in his face. There is only concern, and a warmth and presence he doesn't see in Simon very often. Mal looks down at his bandaged hands. "I'd rather sleep in my own bunk tonight." He swallows, the words nearly sticking in his throat. "Help me up the stairs?" "Of course." They are halfway up when Simon speaks again, quietly enough so that Mal can pretend he hasn't heard. "All you had to do was ask." Mal can't decide whether this is Simon being nice or Simon kicking him when he's down. Anyway, he's got bigger problems. Like Simon's warmth against his side, like the muscle he can feel beneath cloth and skin where his hand rests on Simon's shoulder. Like the fact that they're now standing by the door to his bunk, and all Mal can remember is the kiss they shared here, months ago now. The worst part is that when he looks at Simon's face, he can tell Simon would let him do it again. Right here, right now. And he wants to. So bad. He pushes the door open and focuses on not falling down the ladder. At the bottom, he stops, breathing hard. Simon follows him down. "Planning to tuck me in?" "Or maybe read you a bedtime story." "Special treatment. I'll have to get myself tortured more often." Simon's hand on his back guides him toward the bed. "Please don't." Is he really so dizzy that he needs to hold onto Simon's shoulder as he sits? Maybe. Maybe not. But he does, and Simon is so close now, bending over him, and Mal's hand brushes over one smooth cheek. Simon's lips part--surprise, protest?--and Mal leans forward. Their mouths rest against each other, just barely touching. The moist warmth of Simon's breath flows over Mal's lips. It's not really even a kiss. There is only pressure and nothing more as he leans still closer, only Simon's mouth unmoving against his and the wash of heat it brings. He pulls back abruptly, shaking his head and looking away. "I didn't mean to-- I shouldn't have-- Hell." Simon cups his face in his hand and smoothes a thumb over his cheekbone. Then he straightens up and moves back a step without saying a word. "You can go," Mal says. "I'm fine now." Thinking, please get out of here, for the sake of my sanity if nothing else. "I'm staying." Shock. His eyes jerk up to meet Simon's, but it's perfectly clear at once that he didn't mean for *that*. "Why?" "No one can hear you down here if you need help." "The whole point of this was so you could sleep in your own bed tonight." "The whole point was so *you* could sleep in your own bed tonight." Simon sits, sprawls, in Mal's chair. "Your chair is much more comfortable than mine, so it's a step up for me, too." Mal pulls his legs up onto the bed and underneath the covers, suddenly aware that he has been tromping around the ship in bare feet, and that those stairs were *cold*. "Get some sleep, Captain." "If you say that one more time, I'm gonna pop you one." "Wouldn't that be a refreshing change of pace." Which is totally unfair. He's only ever hit Simon once...all right, twice, and it's not like there's been a lack of provocation. "Hey, what are you getting all snotty about? All I'm asking for here is a little privacy." Simon looks at him, and Mal has to look away. There are too many things unspoken between them. "I'm staying," Simon says flatly. "Gorramit--" "You can try and force me to leave if you want to." He can't. He knows that. Hates the knowledge, but that doesn't change anything. It never does. He lies down and turns his face to the wall. "Good night, Captain." "Chur ni-duh." "Sweet dreams." He hates this. *Hates* it. Doesn't think there's any way to communicate to Simon just how much. He wants Simon close as badly as he wants him gone, but not like this. Not with all his choices taken away. Not when he knows that he couldn't change things if he tried. Too weak to throw Simon out. Too weak to stop wanting him here. He lies still, tense and stiff, until he hears a sigh behind him. "I'm sorry," Simon says. Mal doesn't answer. Simon has nothing to be sorry for. Hasn't in fact done anything wrong. Is only doing his duty as he sees it. He can't stand that Simon will apologize for this just because Mal needs him to. "I should have asked," Simon continues. "Mal, I need to stay. I need to make sure you're all right. Can I stay? Please?" Simon really does know him that well. "Yeah." His voice is strained. "You can stay." "Thank you." Mal curls in on himself, feeling just as helpless as he did when Niska had him tied down. No, more. This is worse. He can't hit Simon, can't even yell at him. Can't get him to understand how much this feels like a trap. It ought to be easier now that Simon has asked permission, and in a way it is, but it's also worse. Simon knows him well enough to ask when he didn't have to. Cares enough to let him have the appearance of choice if not the real thing. Knows him well enough to use the magic words: *I need this from you.* Anything for his crew. Anything they need, because they are his reason for living. Simon included. Simon especially. No. The doctor is nothing special. Just one of his crew, his people, his family. That's enough. Even if it's not enough, it has to be. Tense as he is, he is also exhausted, and sleep will come eventually. In the meantime he divides his thoughts between wishing he'd never let Simon on board and wishing he'd never left Simon's bed. *** Mal leans back in his chair, smiling quietly to himself. Supper is over, but no one has made a move to leave the table. To his left Kaylee bends toward River, the two of them playing cat's cradle and Jacob's ladder, the string moving through their fingers faster than he can follow it. To his left Jayne argues with Wash over the tactics of their invasion of the skyplex while slowly picking a roll to pieces. Mal's smile grows. Listening to Wash talk about tactics is just funny. He meets Zoe's eyes and watches her lips curve ever so slightly. Everyone is in a good mood tonight. A burst of laughter comes from the opposite end of the table, and he looks over to see Simon, eyes bright and face flushed, nearly doubled over at something Book said. Inara is cracking up, too. Mal watches just a little too long. Simon gets himself under control and as he looks up his eyes catch Mal's. And hold. A fraction of a second too long, and then he looks away. Mal pushes away from the table and walks out. Runs away, if he's going to be honest with himself. He stops in the cargo bay, not knowing where else to go. Tonight is the third since he got back, the first he's joined the others at supper. The first Simon won't be sleeping two feet away from him. This is a good thing. He has to believe that. He turns at the sound of footsteps. Wash is standing in the doorway. "You kind of took off there," Wash says. "Needed some air." Wash rolls his eyes upward, considering. "Mm...I'm pretty sure there was air in the kitchen." "Then why don't you go back there and breathe some of it." Wash's jaw is doing that lock-down thing it does when he's got something on his mind that he knows Mal won't want to hear. Mal doesn't know why he bothers, since they both know he's going to say it anyway. Finally he busts out with it. "You're not the only one he fucked over! And we came after you, didn't we? Didn't we?" Wash demands. "Yeah..." "Yeah! So why are you-- How can you--" He throws up his hands. "Ta mah duh, Mal! Why are you being such an *asshole*?" "I--" "Walking around like it was only you that got hurt, and, and..." He sags, defeated. "I didn't have a choice, Mal. It's not like I wanted to leave you behind." Mal looks at him for a second, waiting to see if he's done. Decides he probably is, or even if he's not now would be a good time to get a word in edgewise. "Well, that's a load of crap if ever I heard one," Mal says. Wash just gapes at him. "You, you--" But apparently he can't think of a word bad enough, because he just stops, running hands through his hair so that it sticks up even more than usual and making a wordless noise of frustration. His eyes are flashing, and there's a second when Mal thinks Wash will take a swing at him. In his current state Mal suspects he would go down at the first punch, so it's a bit of a relief when Wash tunes it down from incipient super nova to merely sullen. "You want to explain that fun little statement, Mal? Want to tell me why you think I hate you that much?" Mal is too weary for sympathy. He doesn't want to have this conversation at all, but of course Simon had to be right. "You weren't happy to leave? No more torture--that wasn't fun for you? 'Cause it sure as hell would've been for me." "Mal..." "It wasn't for you to stay behind. I would've kicked Zoe's ass six ways to Sunday if she'd gone and picked me instead, not that there was a chance of that happening." Wash does the jaw thing at him for a second and then relaxes. "Kick her ass? Get a grip, Mal. She could so take you." Neither of them is smiling, but there is a lessening of the tension crackling through the air. "I'm not acting like anything, Wash. This is how I am. You know that." "A bastard." "Yup. That's me." Wash takes a deep breath. "So I'm just making a fool of myself here." "Pretty much. It's done. There weren't no choice for any of us." "Yeah." Wash nods slowly, looking suddenly as tired as Mal feels. "Yeah. I'm gonna go find Zoe. Help with the dishes. Or something." Mal watches him go and lets himself lean against the wall, tipping his head back. A sound, the brush of fabric on metal, makes him turn. River is leaning against the wall right beside him. "How in the hell did you get there?" She tips her head back, mirroring his former position. "Ways and ways," she says. "Did you want something?" She looks straight at him, pushing away from the wall. "I'm keeping score," she says. She shuts her eyes and backs away three steps before turning and walking in a straight line for the door, eyes still closed. Precise, measured paces. Just what he needed. More cryptic pronouncements from Serenity's resident nutcase, and all the more disturbing because he always has the feeling that what River is saying would make perfect sense if only he was smart enough to understand it. He is too tired for this crap. He heads for his bunk, letting himself slowly down the ladder and dropping into his chair. He rests his face against the leather and catches a faint scent. Simon's aftershave. As he pulls himself out of the chair his door opens. Simon climbs down without announcing himself. "What are you doing here?" "I don't know." Simon meets his eyes steadily. "I thought you might want me here." "I don't." The rejection is automatic. He regrets the words, but can't take them back. This is the way it has to be. Simon takes a step closer. "Mal..." "I talked to Wash. You were right." "Did you get it sorted out?" He shrugs. "It's hard to tell with Wash. I just wish..." He catches himself. Wishes never did anyone any good. "What?" Mal shakes his head. "Same old thing. That things weren't so complicated." "But they always are." "Yeah. They always are. Simon...I can't do this with you. I don't even know that I want to. Things get screwed up enough without helping them along." "Do you want me to go?" No. Fuck, no. He wants Simon's skin under his fingers, smooth and warm, wants to taste that mouth again, wants to forget...or have something new to remember. "Yeah," he says. "I want you to go." Mal steps aside to let him by, but Simon stops as he reaches him and takes hold of his shoulders. "Simon..." "You get your wish, Captain. I won't bother you again." Simon kisses him briefly, too briefly, and walks away. Mal watches him disappear up the ladder, feeling his hands clench into fists at his sides. His throat aches, and his eyes burn. He slams one fist into the wall, almost hoping to feel something break. ------- ..end.. Continue to The Widening Gyre home * fandoms * firefly * top