gonna_live | (no subject)

(no subject)

They're back.

The weekend went all right. Could have gone worse. Kaylee is sorting out clothes, and reorganizing things into appropriate piles.

Keeping house.

(Playing house, she thinks, with her now-customary gray-feeling blanket settling in over her thoughts. All there's ever going to be, because you can't snap yourself out of this. Who do you think you're fooling, anyway.)

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Simon's laying out his clothes for tomorrow -- the first day of class -- and trying to watch her without being obtrusive about it.

He hoped the time back on Serenity would help. But she was quiet, and polite, and social, and no more relaxed than during the week; she spoke when spoken to, answered the crew's questions about Osiris shallowly and then changed the subject.

It's getting bad again.

In silence she goes to the kitchen and puts on the (very shiny, very new) kettle. A cup of something herbal would be nice.

Simon's watching her. It'd be nice to get away from that, too.

She leans back against the counter, and fishes out a plain glass mug. (Also new.)

He waits a few minutes before coming out after her; the kettle's just beginning to make the low humming sound that prefaces the whistle.

"Hey," he says softly, putting a hand down next to hers on the counter.

She's very, very still.

She forces half a smile. "Hey."

Are you all -- no.

(His mouth opens slightly, unconsciously, and closes again.)

He can't ask anything like that because there's only one way she can answer, and it's got nothing to do with how she is. And he can't tell if she wants him here or wants him to leave her alone --

Very slowly, very carefully, he reaches out to fold her into a hug.

She reaches out to put her palm on his chest, stopping him --

But only long enough to take the kettle off the burner. After that, she lets herself sink into him, with a soft, tired sigh.

Kaylee's settling in here, at least.

(And at least he's not watching her, any more.)

He holds her close, rubs her back.

Stifles the urge to say something inane like well, that's one week down or you can tell me if it gets too bad to bear.

There has to be something he can say.

There isn't.

Let's go home, she almost says.

At least then the specter of their return in a few days wouldn't be hanging over her. How are you supposed to enjoy a weekend home if you know you're leaving again too soon?

Kaylee feels tears well. She takes a deep breath, holds it, makes them go away.

She has to be able to make this work. No matter what it means, or what it costs her.

No matter what; those words are in his head, too. In her voice.

He knows what kind of an insult he will be offering her if he suggests that, or even asks whether, they should give up and go home.

There was work to do this weekend; it's always going to be like that -- finding the little things that have gone wrong over the course of the week, making a list, working through it all before it's time to turn around and go back. And even then, she's not sleeping well. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out why.

Kaylee's exhausted.

She lets her head rest on Simon's shoulder.

She could ask what she's thinking, but Kaylee's learned about asking questions she doesn't really want the answer to. Besides, she's pretty sure she already knows.

...and there goes the sick lump of dread deep in her belly. Because if he brings it up --

Not bringing it up may be the hardest thing he's ever done.

But he won't take this away from her. He won't take it out of her hands.

(Not, says a very level voice in his head, until things reach the point where you'll be endangering her if you don't.)

He strokes her hair with one hand, slow and soothing.

"Do you need to study," she asks, without lifting her head.

"Not tonight." Soft. "There was only a little preliminary reading to do, and ... I've done it already."

"Can we -- " Haltingly.

"Can we sit up a while."

Under her cheek, his chest lifts and falls with a quick breath.

Still soft, and with a small smile in it: "Dangran."

Kaylee tightens her hold on him, just a little. "Ought to put the kettle back."

(She's not moving.)

"In a minute," he murmurs.

"Do you want to read, maybe? Or just sit?"

"Sit." Muffled. "Please?"

"Okay. That's fine."

And the thing is --

She's asking for something. After a week of silence and avoidance and whatever-you-think-is-best, she's asking him for something.

It's a relief, and a fragile hope.

His arm around her shoulders tightens briefly, then loosens.

As long as she can sit with him, head on his chest and legs draped over his lap, while flurries of snow fall outside and while the bags stay unpacked --

It's not just comfortable. It's comfort. And nobody else can see, or can judge -- this is how they are. (This is how the near-paralyzing fear recedes for a little while.)

When she wakes up the next morning, it's in their bed, with the realization she's been carried there. It's a fairly novel thing that her sleep was too deep to notice.

Kaylee turns over and casts an eye on the clock, then on Simon.

There's an hour yet. She moves closer, and dives back in.

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