print this story!

Disclaimer: Firefly and all related elements, characters and indicia © Mutant Enemy Productions and 20th Century Fox Television, 2003. All Rights Reserved. All characters and situations—save those created by the authors for use solely on this website—are copyright Mutant Enemy Productions and 20th Century Fox Television.

Halo
by RabidX

When ever there's silence here, there's not really. The ship's engines keep converting fuel into energy, processing the life support systems, running Wash's radio. Even when we were dead in space there was noise. Your body makes it's own noise all the time—there's really no stopping it. Except death. Even death is noisy for a while. Decomposition is silent only to human ears unless they listen really close. I wonder if Simon's ever really listened to a body before. A dead body with all it's gurgling, settling fluids, consuming insects, flesh slipping off of bones.

It's a morbid day today. Simon would not approve.

Only one way to cure it, as if there is a cure for what's wrong with me. Too many blue hands have dragged themselves through my brain (dreams? realities? nightmares?) to really cure me. Simon thinks... Simon *thinks* and that's really his problem there. He's a good brother, the best brother perhaps since he's my White Knight as well, but he *thinks* all the time and that's just not good. There are times you just need to feel. Preacher Man, Book, told me that.

Preacher Man and all his anemone sea-life hair. It's not right. Men of hope and faith should be... neat. Shouldn't kneel at their altars with their hair reaching out to God. It's like he's... hmmm Samson. His sect doesn't cut their hair. Maybe they are Samson and the divinity comes through hair follicles like antenna. Maybe they channel the Metatron through it.

His hair speaks and I will have to kill him.

Hair... Inara keeps asking me if I want to do anything with mine. Put it up or maybe just wash it I suppose. What else would you do with hair anymore? People used to do all sorts of things to it, with it. Shave it off and sell it for wigs. Make necklaces and belts out of it. Pile it up in social standings and sexual signals ways. Keep locks of it as remembrances. Why? What does a hunk of dead hair remind you of? You can't clone anything useful after a while. You can't see the person and run your fingers through it. You just have a hunk of dead hair.

Dead isn't pretty unless it's flowers or butterflies on pins. All fluttering under their glass, wanting escape.

Inara's hair is pretty though and it doesn't try to escape. All the curls and waves she makes, oiled and piled up, shining as dark as ink. Malcolm's eyes are drawn to it. He looks at her eyes then her hair. Like she's something more precious than credits or gold. Of course, then he usually darts his eyes to her chest. Sort of ruins the romantic mood.

Hearts and flowers and candy all melting in the heat from the suns we pass. Shining and bright. They cry if we don't feed them the candy.

Not that there's lots of surface romance here, unless you count the rebel do-it-my-way-or-die image that is projected. All cowboys and Alliance nose thumbing. Hell (oh wouldn't Simon be so mad?) Jayne even named his gun. His gun! Vera. It sounds like some sort of name for the bomber nose art women, the pin-up girls, from way way back. Vera. They think I'm nuts? I have yet to name an armament.

I bet Kaylee's named some of her tools or pieces of machinery. She seems the type. Stuck happily down in the sweltering hold, surrounded by noise. I think she likes machines better than people, except for my brother. He doesn't think I notice the way he looks at her just like Mal and Inara look at each other. He thinks I'm not capable of seeing that sort of thing. They would be interesting together, each of them working with their small hands fixing things. Between them they could fix everything.

Fix the broken bits. Fix Zoe, fix Wash, fix Mal's shot glass holes. Fix the explosions before they happen except as quick as they work there's going to be more. No no they can fix it. Everything except maybe the buzz.

See, I get love as abstract a concept as it is. Love is helping and fixing and being there. Love is sort of like Preacher Man's faith. It just is. Not an easy thing to swallow, but it's got to be there. It's easier for me to digest than God. Illogical perhaps, but you need it like you need food and air. A hollow shell is all you will leave if you don't have it from somewhere. You look all black if you don't have love. I know, I've seen it. Love is a glow of light around you. Love... protects.

The glow hurts sometimes. It burns your eyes and makes you cry. As much as you need it, it can hurt you, burn you, make you bleed. As long as there's fixing, it will be okay. I will be okay.

Book loves his God. Simon loves me and Kaylee. Kaylee loves her engines and Simon. Jayne loves himself. Mal loves Serenity, Inara and all of us in his weird non-acknowledging way. Inara loves Mal and us as well. If they'd just pay attention to the pale light around them! I don't know why they can't see it!

Wash and Zoe see it, I know they do. They snipe and play and just... see. It reflects in their eyes when they look at each other when they're quiet. Well, when Wash is quiet, something he hardly is even when he sits and connects the stars. I know it sounds so.. stupid, so trite, but it's true none the less. Their glow is the strongest. It can be blinding, searing right through their cabin door at night. Sex, I suppose. It's a lovely light for something so... base.

The colors are so confusing. I don't know what they *are*. They scare me sometimes. I want to understand them. I want them to go away. I don't like the sick mustardy color that shoots through Mal's sometimes. I can't look at Jayne when his gets rusty red. And Simon... when his is grey like charchol... I have to hide. I just... want to know and it scares me.

I'm getting sick of that too.