Invulnerable (Firefly fanfic)
(04.01.07 - reposted from ff.net)
AN: Mal/Simon. Set after "War Stories." Someone has to see him as human. "Mal seems whole, seems normal and stable and solid except for the thin scars trembling through his eyes."
Disclaimer: None of this is mine.
... Invulnerable...
It is night, and he sits on his bunk. He cannot sleep. He cannot remember ever sleeping, ever breathing past the lump in his throat as his chest constricts and he slowly, repetitiously bangs the back of his head against the wall. The metal vibrates for a second, and he lets the sound, the hum, slide through his body. He focuses on thinking of nothing, keeping the memories on the edge of his mind at bay. His hands are tightened into fists and crossed firmly in front of him. His heels dig into the mess of sheets and blankets underneath him. Malcolm Reynolds is directing all of his unfathomable energy into forgetting, and he knows he’s placed himself squarely into a battle he cannot win.
Doctor Simon Tam is bending over the counter in his lab, jotting down different sets of medicines-trying desperately to come up with the perfect mix-the cure-for River. His hand slips and a bottle crashes to the floor, and he swears angrily, distraught. His hands tremble minutely as he cleans up the mess, and his back tightens as if to spill out the anger and violence, but it does little to assuage his unusual fury. He turns back to the scattered pages, noting with almost amusement the small, steady, clean handwriting that has turned into uneven scribbling. He drags the back of his left hand across his mouth, and something in his dark eyes flashes and falls simultaneously. He turns and looks at himself in the faded reflection of the window, and sees that he’s carrying himself differently. Tighter, tenser, and he looks away before he can be dragged down by his shadow.
He wants to turn and knock the bottles onto the ground, but he resists, narrowly. He turns and leaves through the door, though a dark part of him wonders what it would be like to throw himself into the glass and shatter his reflection.
The ship is dark and hums softly and people are sleeping but he walks with a purpose and a destination. The ladder down to the captain’s quarters is shut, but something inside of him has broken, and it is his calmness and his silence and his submissive and passiveness. Part of being a doctor is knowing when he is needed, and he has noticed that no one else is willing to acknowledge the fact that Mal needs comfort-no one else can admit to themselves that Mal is anything less than a superhero, anything other than the mask that he not only wears but hides behind. And he is no longer willing to put up with the charade and the game and the bravado that is becoming a mockery of itself.
Simon examined Mal after they had rescued him from Niska’s hands and saw the old scars stretching across his skin, almost translucent, almost invisible, and he was struck by the profound simplicity of fact-Mal seems whole, seems normal and stable and solid except for the thin scars trembling through his eyes. And no matter how neatly they are sewed together, no matter how carefully they are hidden and ignored and pretended away, some scars never disappear.
So when he pushes back the ladder and drops down the steps into darkness, he is wearing a cloak of bravado that he had almost forgotten he possessed. A slow, soft banging echoes in the small room and he frowns and steps forward and whispers into nothingness.
“Mal?” Silence holds a moment longer until it melts against the soft scratch of human voice.
“Doc, that you?”
“Yes.”
“What’re you doing in here?”
Something about the way Mal’s voice stays level and soft hurts Simon, though he doesn’t know why.
Somehow, he thinks that despite it all he really did think Mal was invulnerable.
Somehow, he thinks, knowing that Mal will do anything, everything, to keep the crew safe, has let him sink back into the belief that Mal is solid and unshakable and indestructible. He is the safety net, and the idea that Mal needs someone to lean on is almost laughable. But confronted-here, now-with this, it is almost painful.
“I wanted to check on you.”
Mal laughs-darkly. Almost wild, with an abandonment and loss of composure that is inches away from nakedness.
“I’m fine, doc. Go to your sister-she needs you more than me.”
Simon dares to take a step closer.
“She’s sleeping.”
“So should you. Don’t need no help, doc.”
The way Mal is still trying to be the protector, despite it all, would be damnably funny if it weren’t so heart-wrenching.
“Mal-”
“I said git, doc. Ain’t you heard me?” Mal’s voice is darker, and firmer, and angrier, and Simon steps back almost instinctively. Swallows. Lifts his chin up.
“Don’t think I did, at that. You say something, Mal?”
And steps forward, sitting on the edge of the cot, inches from where I can feel, if not see, Mal’s presence.
“Look, doc-”
“Name’s Simon.”
“Well, that’s lov’ly. Mine’s Cap’n, by the by.”
“Do you want t’ talk?”
“Talk? Talk about what?”
“Mal, you’re sitting down here in the dark banging your head against the wall. Don’t play stupid.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” he growls, and moves on the bed to face Simon. “I don’t have a damn thing to say to you.”
“Did you think you were going to die?”
“I did die, ‘member?” Mal laughs hollowly, and Simon wishes he could see his face. See if his eyes will admit to pain, or if they’d hide it, too. Mal coughs thickly, and Simon frowns, thinking of the broken ribs and their proximity to his lungs.
Simon reaches out blindly and grabs Mal’s wrist, trying to find the pulse but before he can find it Mal lunges at him, knocking him to the ground and falling on top heavily. His breathing is thready and strained and he lies there frozen for a moment. Before Simon has a chance to speak, Mal’s lips cover his and Mal’s fingers are struggling with his buttons and Mal’s ankle is rubbing against his. Before Simon can recover from the shock Mal has rolled off of him, sitting up and rubbing a trembling hand through his hair. Simon sits up as well, and hesitantly puts a hand on Mal’s shoulder. He flinches.
“Mal-”
“Sorry.” The word is breathless and soft and embarrassed and self-loathing. “I shouldn’t-I didn’t-I just wanted to feel something else…I’m sorry.”
He stands, abruptly, and turns the light on the dimmest setting. He doesn’t meet Simon’s eyes.
“Mal-”
“I understand if you want t’ leave, but you don’t need to…I’d never…I didn’t mean to...an’ it’s a safe spot for River…but…”
“Mal!” He stops. “It’s fine, Mal.”
Mal shakes his head with dark humor.
“No. It’s not.”
“Because you showed you were vulnerable?”
“Damnit, doc, don’t twist my words!”
“I’m just trying to understand your mind. Or…wait. It’s your misguided sense of responsibility for the world, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“I’m on your crew, so you’ve got to do everything you can to protect me. Even from yourself.”
“Doc-”
“You can’t put all the responsibility for everything on your shoulders.”
“I’m responsible for my own actions.”
“You’re entirely too noble for your own good. You know that, right?”
“What’re you tryin’ t’ say, doc? You didn’t mind me jumping you? I don’t usually…I tend towards girls, y’know.”
“I figured as much.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“No offense, Mal, but you could do with some lessons.”
“Funny, doc.”
“I thought so.”
A long silence stretched, Mal’s arms tightening in front of him.
“Why’d you come here, doc? What d’ya want?”
“I wanted to check on you.”
“I think that’s about done, then, wouldn’t you?”
“No.”
Simon stands, slowly, as if to not scare Mal off.
“Doc…”
“Your eyes get all dark when you’re trying to hide, did you know that? Not another thing changes, but your eyes get dark, and sometimes they look hurt.”
“Don’t talk nonsense.”
“What are you afraid of?”
“I ain’t afraid of nothing,” Mal retorts softly, with an almost-smile.
“Afraid for Wash?”
“What?”
“Are you afraid for Wash?”
“Yes,” he breathes, and denies, and admits.
“What did he do to you?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“You can’t keep it all bottled up inside of-”
“Shut up, doc. You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Simon ducks his head as if he’s been slapped.
“I guess you’re right about that.”
“Look…doc…”
Before he can finish Simon grabs Mal’s wrist and pulls him towards him. Mal pulls back, hard, and they slip apart, eyes darting up to look at the other.
“What do you want, Mal?”
“Nothing.”
“You never were a good liar.”
“I guess you’re right about that,” Mal half-smiles darkly, and throws a punch at the young doctor. Simon dodges, but trips, and they fall to the ground in a heap of tangled limbs. And they roll, struggling with each other, with their own demons, with anger and pain that have been building up for days. Simon gives Mal a black eye and Mal rolls on top of Simon and smashes his head into the ground. Simon’s hand tightens around Mal’s jaw, trying to force him backward, and Mal grabs Simon’s hand and pulls it away and then falls forward and their lips touch again.
And somewhere along the line they’ve stopped fighting and started a very similar dance, cloth ripping, fingers bruising flesh, teeth drawing blood, stubble dragging against sensitive skin.
And Malcolm Reynolds forgets his past in the sensation of the moment.
And Simon Tam reaffirms his belief in mere flesh and human spirit.
Finis