Title: Breaking Stasis

Disclaimer: Joss is boss!

A/N: Yes, after six long months there is finally an update. Not as long as I'd like, but this seemed like a good place to stop and I figure everyone would rather just have something than have me agonize for another couple of months before I actually post this.

As you can probably guess I really, really struggled with this one. My muse and motivation completely abandoned me, and even the good ole standby of watching Firefly episodes until inspiration struck wasn't cutting it. Coupling this with the fact that I've been very busy in real life means six months passed before I knew it. I really can't guarantee when the next update will come, but I wanted to prove to all my readers that I'm still chugging along. Thank you so much to everyone who continues to read this despite the tremendous lapse in time. I hope you all enjoy!

He looks better in red.

Feels better in red.

So warm that every touch, every glance, scalded her skin. Marking her flesh, past the epidermis and deep, deep down to her bones, to her marrow, leaving a reminder that only the two of them could see.

A claim.

And when that searing heat flooded her system, making each nerve ending crackle with intensity until she was sure she would erupt like a young volcano, everything else would fall away. The biting, grabbing memories, the steady throbbing that had developed in her frontal lobe, the stink of something that was not quite human and not quite right and no matter how much she searched and searched it only seemed to be coming from her because she wasn't human and she wasn't right...

Everything was simple, everything was easy. There was just River and Jayne and the very worst of their problems was a loving and well-intentioned gege who was far too overprotective just like a gege was meant to be. When the worst that could happen were harsh words and hurt feelings and not broken minds and hands stained with rotting viscera, fingernails broken and chipped and tainted with the blood of a thousand bodies.

He looks better in red.

She couldn't recall the last time she'd seen the intensity in his colors, the last time she'd felt it upon her skin. Even in her most cogent moments, pieces in some semblance of order like a small child completing a puzzle to the best of her ability, she couldn't pinpoint the exact moment he'd last worn his red. He was crinkled yellow, the pit in the bottom of your stomach, the clenching of your throat. The racing heartbeat, fingertips on the pulse even as it gave belie to the lie that no, things were not alright and things hadn't been alright for a while and your heart really is beating as though it would burst from your chest in a brilliant shower of gore.

Worry.

It weighed him down as if he would sink through the steel floor, down through the galley into the hold and straight through the hull, the burden on his shoulders the strongest force in the 'verse. And every time she tried to grasp at his thoughts, hoping that this time it would be different and his thoughts would be carefree or just content, they would be full of her. Not of her dancing, or laughing, or even the improper and highly embarrassing notions he'd used to entertain seemingly every time she caught an accidental glimpse into his psyche. As mortifying as it had been to see herself in those images, knowing that he was creating a River in his mind that she could surely never compare to, she would have been overjoyed to see them now.

Now they were full of itchy anxiety, scratching at her skin, and grim determination that tasted bitter on her tongue.

Gorram girl's completely off her axle.

She belongs in a bughouse.

Cracked. Crazy.

He worried that she would hurt herself, or worse, when her mind was not her own and wandered as it was wont to do. He worried she would hurt someone else, maybe the bright mechanic or serene Companion, and then the Captain would have no choice but to force her to leave the place of peace. He worried that sticky fingers would find them, blue hands hunting for their wayward science project. He worried about when they'd flown in the sandalwood shuttle, that if the gray bellies had found them he wouldn't be able to protect her. He worried and worried and worried...

It was most unlike Jayne, to worry about something that he had no control over. He had a practical sort of mind that chose to dwell on the present and how he could change it to be further in his favor. Decisions were absolutes: good or bad, lucrative or unprofitable, entertaining or tedious. She'd been sure it would pass, given time.

When they'd returned to the vessel's warm comfort, the crew had been forced into a delicate, awkward dance. Cheeks full to bursting with words left unsaid, insults left unused. But so soon after the black had nearly embraced them no one had been willing to break the tense sort of comradery that had developed. There would time for acrimonious poison later, when death didn't loom from behind everyone's shoulder, when the icy certainty of inevitably had faded and confidence filled the holes it left behind.

The bridegroom had saved his bride, one bit of ceramic and metal to mend a broken heart. And so he had saved them all. It was unifying, binding them together as soldiers who had miraculously come through a terrible battle unscathed. Now they could heal together as one body, one unit.

But Jayne, stubborn, obstinate Jayne, refused to heal. All he could seem to do was worry and ready himself for when his fears became reality. Sharpening his knives, cleaning his guns, organizing his ammunition. She'd tried to speak to him about it, to soothe his rough edges and shift that sickening color, but the words spewed forth a jumbled mess without meaning or reassurance. Each time she tried and failed he would stew more until eventually she gave up.

Gorram girl's completely off her axle.

Even on the increasingly frequent days when nothing seemed to make sense, when her dreams seemed to carry over further and further into reality until she wasn't sure when she laid down in her bunk if she was waking or falling asleep, his color taunted her. Reminding her that he used to want her, care for her, desire her, anything but worry, worry, worry. She'd broken him, broken him as the hands had broken her and it was all her fault.

He looks better in red.

She had to repair what she had broken, fix what her cracked mind had torn asunder.

He looks better in red.

The red of lust, the red of passion, the red of anger and fervor. Absent from his person, his colors, his mind. She needed him to want her again, to need her the way that he used to and the way that she still did or else they'd both shatter into atoms and molecules.

Brains splattered all over the bulkhead.

Blood thrown about the hold, splashing against the cargo and congealing on the floor in sticky puddles of rusty crimson.

...

Crimson.

...

Marking the entire vessel with their red.

It wasn't exactly right, too brown and coppery, with an edge of despair that he never used to have. But she was running out of time to save him. And she had to save him, as he had always saved her.

So at lunch that day, when she'd heard the butcher's knife innocuous whispers from the countertop, she knew what she had to do.

She had to fix him.

"He looks better in red."

"Son of a—" Jayne managed to gasp out, one hand reaching up to apply pressure against the wound. The other came up instinctually to punch her, hit her, do something to make up for the pain that she was causing, but it got all jumbled up somewhere along the way. Suddenly he was diving for her, grabbing at her wrist with one hand and digging his thumb into the fleshy bundle of nerves nestled between the fragile bones of her forearm. The blade fell from her instantly useless hand, the momentum of his lunge carrying them both up against the wall of the galley. His free hand latched around her other wrist, drawing both up above her head to nullify the threat.

Behind them a cacophony of alarm that Jayne barely even registered.

"What the hell?!"

"River, no!"

"Oh, my God."

"He's bleeding."

"That's deep."

"Are you okay?"

He knew his fingers were diggin' into her wrists somethin' powerful and he knew that if she was firin' on even half of her cylinders then she'd be wincin' or yellin' at him. But she just stared right up at him with those glassy eyes without apology or confusion. Hell, didn't even seem to notice that he was damn near pressed up against every inch of her, pinnin' her hands up above her head and her chest to the bulkhead with his own body, in what would have been a highly compromisin' position under sweeter circumstances.

"Release her, please! You need to let me examine her!"

And then those girly doctor hands were tuggin' at him, useless and weak on account of him never doin' a day's hard labor in his whole gorram life. Still, Jayne couldn't hold her like this forever and after a pause he reluctantly stepped back, hand again coming up to stay the steady stream of blood. Hadn't stopped applyin' pressure for just a minute or so, but the blood had already stained down the front of his shirt. Dripped down the entire length, smearin' the moonbrain's dress in the process like she was the one that got cut on and even though he knew it wasn't real it was still mighty unsettlin' to see.

Simon stepped in between them, hands gripping River's shoulders in an unnecessary attempt to steady still knees and a firm posture. Eyes racked over her frantically, gentle hands checking her red, sore wrists for signs of injury. River kept her gaze on Jayne, ducking out from behind Simon's shoulder to maintain eye contact.

"He looks better in red."

Ta ma de.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, you fabiao de baichi! Cao ni zuzong shiba dai!" His chest was still heavin' like a pair of bellows. It was more with rage and indignation than pain, but though he'd have denied it to the last that slice across his chest was startin' to hurt like a ruttin' bitch.

"But he does!" she protested, surprised by the commotion. He had been broken and she had fixed him. This didn't concern anyone else.

"What the fuck is wrong with you? You're fuckin' crazy, you know that?" he sputtered.

Fuck!

He'd known she was gettin' bad, real bad. Used to be maybe she'd have one bad day a month, then every other week. Now seemed like odds were pretty even she'd be shit for brains or her know-it-all-bratty-ass-self. But fuck, he hadn't seen this one coming. Thought maybe she'd do somethin' to herself on accident, or maybe that piece of shit gege of hers. Now wouldn't that be a cryin' shame.

But to attack him? Like this?

Shit.

Things must be worse than he thought.

"Jayne," she started, giving her best placating smile. The smile that used to soothe him when she was being particularly difficult and his feathers were all ruffled, even if they remained all disheveled around his face now. "Helping, Jayne. Helping Jayne." It was all she could say with such a wide audience surrounding them and she struggled not to roll her eyes at his blatant obtuseness. "Helping," she stressed, giving him a deliberate look.

"River, whatever Jayne did that upset you this is not helping," Simon interjected, trying to gain her attention. "This is not how we help, meimei, this never helps." He tried to reach for her wrists again, lead her away before either of them could possibly make the situation worse than it already was, but she nimbly avoided his efforts.

"Help my ass!" Yep, that slice was startin' to burn like hell. "You're as much as help as a gorram Reaver."

Shaking her head firmly, she forced her mind to focus. Focus on Jayne and the pain seeping from him, pain that she could remedy if he would just listen... "Fixed him, fixed his colors. He hears, but he does not comprehend."

She took a careful step towards him and was startled when he stepped forward to meet her as well. "Don't you fuckin' talk to me like I'm a dumbass, I comprehend you plenty moonbrain. I comprehend that you're batshit crazy right now!" Some part of his brain told him to be calm, to be gentle, that this wasn't his River and that when his River came back she'd be awful upset with what she'd done. But damn if that voice didn't get overshadowed right quick by the pain in his chest and the blood pouring between his fingers.

That vacant, passive look in her eyes made him furious, furious that she was so far gone, furious at those that had done this to her, furious at the whole gorram 'verse for this steaming pile of gose that had become his life. "This is what you don't comprehend, you ruttin' genius." And he tore his shirt off in one violent motion, ripping along the tear even further and splitting some seams in the process. Without the pressure of his hand the wound bled greedily, spluttering down his chest and abdomen, catching in the thick waistband of his pants. He grabbed her hand and pressed it against the cut, fighting the urge to wince at the harsh contact. "Now do you fuckin' get it?" he snarled.

It was red. But it was all wrong, smelled like misery and metal, fleeing his figure when he should have worn it like a mantle, and sticky, sticky underneath her fingers.

And warm.

So warm, much warmer than she was certain she'd ever been in her life. Jayne was so big, big heart big lungs big everything pumping, pumping, pumping away, pumping away his blood, pumping the life through his veins and brain and keeping him walking and talking and always so, so warm, warm enough for two...

And then suddenly, cruel and sudden as a guillotine, it wasn't his colors underneath her hand at all, but his blood.

His blood.

Spewing from his chest, covering him, covering her, and he was terribly angry and he hurt and he was in pain and it was because of the knife on the floor, the knife from her hand. Because she'd hurt him.

"Jayne!" she shrieked. "Jayne, Jayne – I didn't, she didn't," she spluttered, words spewing out so violently that she could barely breathe. "Didn't – was trying - he couldn't –" Her lungs completely bereft of oxygen she took a gulp of air, almost choking at the sudden onslaught. Face crumpling she began to shake, tangled hair wavering like leaves in the wind.

Ta ma de. That face, that gorram look in her eyes, way she shook like her body was tryin' to tear itself to pieces... damn if it didn't look nigh on identical from the first time he'd laid eyes on her. Bare ass naked, sure, but just about scared shitless. Like she weren't sure if she was supposed to cry or scream or claw your eyes right outta your skull. Regret clenched around his chest like a vise. What a fuckin' dumbass. Like she didn't have enough to worry over, to cry over. "C'mon, I mean—"

She held her hands shakily up to the air, trying to see them clearly in the suddenly erratic light. She'd wanted red, begged for red, and now there was nothing but it. Staining his chest, staining her hands, staining her conscience, never clean, never right, never pure. Sullied, stained, dirty dirty dirty dirty – she began to rub furiously at her hand. "Yet, here's a spot."

"River, please stop. We all know that it was an accident—" Simon stepped closer, hands held up beseechingly.

"Out damned spot!" she shouted, wiping at her hands so vigorously that they rapidly turned crimson under her harsh attentions. "Out I say!"

"Hey now, sister," Jayne tried to soothe her, stepping pointedly between River and the doc. "Shit ain't nothin' but a scratch, I've cut myself worse shavin'."

"Hell is murky! What, will these hands never be clean?" she whimpered.

Girl was liable to tear her ruttin' arms off she kept this up.

What a fuckin' dumbass.

He grabbed for her arms, trying to separate the hands that still desperately clung to each other. "Will you cut it out? I'm fine, you're fine, everything's shiny."

"Not shiny! Dirty! She wrecked – he couldn't – can't – broke him – she, her hands—" she spluttered, tears welling up in the corner of her eyes as her voice rose to a hysterical tone. No matter how much she gasped she couldn't quite manage to catch her breath, like she was deep, deep underwater and the water was filling her lungs, drowning her, closing in all around to leave her hiding as a refugee amongst the seaweed and sand, getting darker and darker as the sun fled to leave her all alone...

"She's hyperventilating—" a dim voice, one she knew she loved but couldn't quite place.

"Get away from her!" Gun polish and deep, abiding affection.

"Need to – can't you see –"

Spots. Color and darkness, swelling and fading.

"See plenty, you peckerless—"

"Medication – don't understand—"

Little pinpricks of light, the swelling of the orchestra in her ears... and then just the black.

gege: older brother

ta ma de: motherfucker

fabiao de baichi: crazy idiot

cao ni zuzong shiba dai: fuck your ancestors to the eighteenth generation

meimei: younger sister

gose: crap