but only once.

Victor, one question: thick of trees? Do you mean thicket of trees?

Great fic, Victor. I am enjoying having Willow, Xander, and Buffy back together.

Oh, lovely! Nice one, Victor. Thoroughly intrigued - can't wait for the next installment - v. good dialogue, as ever - you've really got the voices nailed. Go team.

Ahem. So, still fiddling around with Firefly fic and, for no particular reason, present tense.

I still don't like the whole Crazy Space Incest reading of the River-Simon relationship. But my Simon/Kaylee sort of...isn't.

Thicker than Water.

Surfacing from sleep it still takes him several long, lingering moments to place himself in the here-and-now. There are whole seconds when Simon could be waking up to his sixth birthday, or when he might have snatched a few minutes or even hours of much-needed sleep between shifts in the hospital; whole seconds before he remembers that his life has been jolted off course forever, and that his world has shrunk to one patient, one research project, one precious thing that he has hidden on a ramshackle ship manned by petty crooks. He opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling and knows that he is trapped in a fragile bubble of steel and air and second-hand parts, hiding his sister from the authorities and depending upon the kindness of criminals.

This is not the future he expected.

"You're awake." He peers blearily down the length of his body and sees River framed in the doorway, all skinny limbs and tangled locks. She looks about twelve – and yet not. Disturbingly not. Her clever fingers clasp the edge of the door and she swings herself out carelessly, like a child leaning away from a climbing frame. He sits up, half-afraid that she will fall, and the sheet drops away from his skin. "I was waiting, and then you were awake. Grass and daisies soon."

"You – yes. Yes, I'm awake," he agrees, because it's the simplest thing to do, and he tries to look like a nonchalant brother rather than a concerned physician as he scans her face and limbs. She seems calm enough, and her colour is normal. He meets her eyes and sees her smiling at him knowingly. She understands him too well. "I – how are you feeling, River?"

"She wears not motley in her brain," she announces gravely. He tries to place the reference, and it's just on the tip of his tongue when she executes a flawless and unexpected pirouette and distracts him once again. Her expression, when she meets his eyes again, is kind. Pitying. "You've patched me up well, Simon. It's not your fault I'm broken. You're all virtue, Simon; no patches; no transgressions." She steps further into the room, placing her bare feet so carefully she might have been picking her way through broken glass. Her borrowed dress is too big, hanging loose where curves should swell to fill it. He watches her curious progress with a familiar ache of tenderness, and rubs the sleep out of his eye with the back of his hand. His bed is hard under him, but he is growing used to it. When she reaches his side she leans close and whispers confidentially: "You can't fix a fault line with a bandage and a pin – the stresses on the tectonic plates are simply too great." He back smiles at her, and it feels like someone has reached right into his chest and is squeezing his heart. "It's not your fault," she says, and kisses his cheek.

He wants to wake up out of this, and have her whole again, and home.

* * *

"Armies march on their stomachs," River points out, surveying his latest culinary offering with an expression of profound distrust. Protein powder is adequate sustenance, but it is far from appetising. Nobody has ever taught Simon how to cook, and his forays into food preparation have not been the greatest of successes so far. His respect for Shepherd Book is growing by the day.

"Yes. Well, we aren't an army," he says. "Come on, it's delicious. Really. Just like – well, just like someone's mother used to make. Possibly. Somewhere. In a place without fresh fruit or vegetables or anything meat-like." There is a little pause. "I'm not selling it, am I?"

"No," says River firmly. "I'm not that crazy." She meets his eyes and they both laugh with a suddenness that is as welcome as it is unexpected. "I want miso soup," she adds unhelpfully. "And goose eggs."

"Brat," he replies, eyeing the brownish mush with resignation. She is still growing, he reminds himself, and she should really eat - but he feels exactly the same way about the food himself. He pulls out one of the mismatched chairs and sits at the dining table, half-hoping that this will somehow make the contents of the bowls seem more foodlike. It does not. River perches on the table, her dirty knees peeping out from under an explosion of fabric. He knows she should be sitting at the table, not on the table, but it no longer seems to matter very much.

The mush tastes worse than it looks.

It is only now that he is coming to realise how very many of the little details of what he had considered to be normality were never normal, never a given. Privilege had softened all life's edges for the Tams, and although he had never been one to overindulge in luxury for its own sake, still he had taken for granted the opportunities that wealth afforded him. The freedoms. He had never had to worry about where to find medical supplies, or research data, or fresh mango juice. These things were unthinkingly available in his old life, simple as air. He had also, without pondering it very hard, always believed that there was right and wrong, good and bad, acceptable and unacceptable. That it was easy to tell one from the other.

"It's really not that bad," he says, waving his chopsticks at the mush. "Once you get used to it. It's – ah. It's wholesome. Really. It's good for you."

"So is spinach," says River, glaring at the bowl. After a moment she picks up her chopsticks, and Simon knows a moment of unexpected optimism before she winds her hair into a knot and stabs the chopsticks firmly through the middle.

"I like spinach," he murmurs, poking the mush. His expression is glum. It really does taste nothing like chicken, whatever the flavouring crystals may have promised.

"Your palette is unaccountably deficient," agrees River amicably, swinging her bare legs. "It's because you're a boob."

It was River's letters that first taught him to question his vision of reality, and since then everything that once seemed solid and beyond doubt has begun to crumble and fray around him. Out here in the Black, as Simon has come to realise, one cannot take breathing for granted, let alone mango juice, and everything is shades of grey. Respectable does not mean good, and nor does courteous.

Mal Reynolds is a smuggler who positively delights in being abrasive, but presently he is all that stands between River and her pursuers – and Simon, to his own surprise, trusts him with both their lives. Shepherd Book is a man of the cloth, but he knows how to shoot a man dead, even if he does choose to aim for their kneecaps by preference. Simon's life is full of disturbing contradictions and juxtapositions now.

River glances disdainfully at her untouched dinner, swivels around, slides back along the wooden surface and lies back down on the table as still as a mummified queen. Simon is reminded, a little randomly, of a book he once read which claimed that, on Earth That Was, rich men would sometimes eat their dinner from the naked flesh of a virgin. He considers mentioning this to River, smiling at the thought that she probably already knows, and could cite the relevant historians and critique all their works, but upon second thought he finds himself uncomfortable. Simon swallows another mouthful of protein, enjoying the tranquillity of the dining room all the more because it is bound to be short lived. Zoe and the Captain are offship, negotiating the details of their latest job. Jayne will be with them, looking dangerous. Inara is already planetside. Serenity is, for once, living up to her name.

"It doesn't know what it's supposed to be," River says, dipping an idle finger into the cooling food without looking at it.

"I know the feeling," says Simon wryly, surveying his sister. She seems to feel his affectionate glance, because she abruptly rolls over and props her chin on her hands. She is not smiling.

"No you don't," she says, after a moment. "You know what you should be. You're just scared."

He wants to protest, but her knowing expression disturbs his composure and he ends up simply rolling his eyes and turning his attention to his own unappetising meal. He wonders if she knows herself what she means.

There have been countless little shocks as he adjusts to his new routines and to the deprivations of life on a battered old ship, living hand to mouth. Processed food. Recycled air. No more baths. Learning to darn socks, which was slightly different from sewing skin. Wearing dirty shirts, because it simply wasn't practical to wash them after only one day. Body odour, his own and other people's. No privacy. Eating mush. Simon is tired, frustrated, exhilarated, disgusted, startled, amused, bemused and annoyed on a daily basis. He is no longer sure who he is, wrenched so out of context. He has gone beyond colluding with criminal activities to actively planning them, an

He is no longer sure who he is, wrenched so out of context. He has gone beyond colluding with criminal activities to actively planning them, and he can only guess what else he might be capable of.

He misses the comfort of the ground beneath him and the sky safely arching over his head, the casual glory of sunrise and sunset glimpsed in neat slices between the tall walls of glass-faced buildings as he hurried from work to home or home to work. Now he savours planetfalls the way that Kaylee savours strawberries. Granted, he spends most of their landbound time worrying about River and the Alliance, but beneath it all there is always a visceral sense of relief to be back on dry land and breathing a limitless supply of fresh air, with the stars safely tucked away where they belong.

He would live alone in a space station orbiting a sulphur-mining moon if it would keep his sister safe.

"I love you," he says out loud, and River smiles.

* * *

"Don't you like me?"

And of course he likes her, because only a monster could dislike Kaylee. He more than likes her, truth to tell, and he thought she knew this, even though he isn’t very good at saying so. Simon stares helplessly into her hurt eyes. Every time they've had a moment like this, with skin tingling from an accidental touch and her breath still warming his ear, it's all gone horribly wrong. He's paralysed now, trying not to wreck it and knowing that he's wrecking it anyway.

The seconds slip by as his fingers tighten around the mug and he knows that every moment is making it worse, but he still doesn't know where to begin, or what he wants. Jayne will probably come blundering down the corridor into the Engine room any minute now and say something spectacularly crass.

She's waiting. There's grease on her exposed collarbone and on the back of her wrist, and her hair is falling out of a ponytail already, although she tied it up barely five minutes ago. He wants to tell her that he likes her top, which is cheap and flowery and worn thin in places, and still prettier than all the brocade gowns he has seen in his life because it's hers. She's wearing a bracelet of synthetic jade and artificial ivory that he hasn't seen before. It's cheap and trashy and kitsch, and he's quite sure that her affection for it is unironic. It makes him want to kiss her.

If he were good with girls he would be able to explain it all. If he were good with girls he could say something witty and sexy, and then she would be laughing and leaning towards him with that fascinating light in her eyes and her smile so open and honest that everything in the 'verse seems hopeful.

Simon isn't good with girls.

And, honestly, she isn't the sort of girl he would have noticed, before. (Not that Simon had ever noticed girls very often, even before he realised there was something wrong with River.) It wasn't as if he'd have been rude to her, but – well. Kaylee doesn't know the right kind of clothes to wear or the right wines to serve. She doesn't look or act or think like the girls Simon is supposed to desire, the appropriate girls. She's common. Which, Simon has come to realise, doesn't mean what he once thought it meant. And he realises that people like Kaylee are rarer than hen's teeth, now that he knows her. Kaylee is anything but common; Kaylee is a pearl beyond price, a gem of the first water, a startlingly genuine and generous soul. She is also, he realises now, quite beautiful, because in addition to being a pretty girl she is Kaylee, and so she is unspeakably precious.

But before all this – well it simply wouldn't have occurred to him to get to know her in the first place, any more than it had occurred to him to become pally with his chauffeur, so he would never have known she was precious. His life had a place for everything, and everything in its place, and Simon had never questioned that. It's still difficult to make the adjustments.

"Of course I do," he manages at last, but the moment has gone and her smile has dimmed. He kicks himself. He wants her. He watches her turn away and before he is aware of his own intention he feels his fingers clasping her arm, soft and firm through the thin fabric, and pulling her back towards him. Kaylee makes a small, interrogative noise as she swings around to face him and then he is kissing her up against the wall and she is kissing him right back. He can feel her smile curve into his face.

She feels entirely wonderful against him.

* * *

• * *

"Do you think you love her? Or is she spinach?"

Simon pauses, the sliver of metal a scant millimetre away from penetrating her skin. He knows that she hates this and dreads it and that she will lash out in any way she can, desperate for distraction. He thought he was used to it.

"I'm not – I mean, I've never, I'm not sure what – of course she isn't spinach." He swallows, suddenly dry mouthed, and steps away from her. River is trembling, and he doesn't know whether this is a physiological or psychological symptom. She looks paler than usual. She looks nothing at all like Kaylee, and for the tiniest fragment of a moment he wishes that she did not exist at all, and that he could simply lose himself in Kaylee's warm curves and not spend his life worrying about his crazy-brilliant baby sister. He is instantly ashamed of the thought. And if not for River, he would not know Kaylee, or want to know her. And anyway, he cannot conceive of a life without River, even this River. "We aren't talking about this. It's really none of your business." She stares at him, and he doesn't know how to interpret her expression at all. "Now please, River, just stay still for me. Please stay still. I need to do your blood work to see whether the new meds – no, don't do that." The patience in his voice is cracking. River's knuckles are white where she clasps his wrist. She's hurting him.

"Because I like her. I don't think you should hurt her, Simon." He stumbles as he steps away, shaking his arm so violently to free it that she is almost pulled off the bed. He is breathing too fast.

"I'm not! I don't – what – I have no intention of discussing my love life with you. If I had a love life, which I still really don't, beyond a few kisses, because when the (need appropriate Chinese) would I have time for a love life, when I can't leave you alone for more than five minutes without you trying to cut of Jayne's head or opening an air lock, but if I ever were to have such a thing then it's not the sort of thing I'd want to discuss with my baby sister." He stops, startled by the tumble of words, and there is a little pause before he continues more calmly. "Really. This is almost as embarrassing as it is disturbing, which makes it about normal for my family right now. We're not talking about this, River."

"I've ruined everything," River whispers, pulling her knees up under her chin with a grace that is wholly out of place here. She wraps thin arms around her knees and hugs herself hard, staring at Simon accusingly through hair like straggled sea wrack. They have had this conversation before, too many times, and it hurts. "You shouldn't be here, learning to like mush. I've ruined everything for you."

"Yes you have," he snaps, because it has been months since he's had a good night's sleep, and because he misses his old life too, even though it makes him feel guilty as sin, even though he would do it all again without a second thought. Simon is only human, and there is a corner of his heart that feels nostalgic for the days when he believed everything was right with the world, that could almost wish he had never guessed something was wrong.

The shocked silence that follows is like a blow. Her eyes widen, suddenly gleaming with unshed tears, and he flinches at his own words. "No," he says, shaken. "No, I didn't mean – that's not – River, you know that it doesn't matter." He feels sick. He didn't mean it. She must know that. "None of it matters. Just you. Nothing matters but you, River. I love you." She shrinks away. He cannot bear it. "Look at me. Look at me, River!" His fingers close over her shoulders, but she is pressing her face into her knees and she will not look at him. "You know it doesn't matter," he tells her urgently, leaning close and whispering into her ear. Her hair brushes against his mouth. Simon is trembling. "Nothing matters, nobody matters – only you. Always you. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, mei-mei, River, darling, sweetheart." He is crying. There were long years when he had never cried at all, when he thought that he was too old for tears. He can't believe how stupid he once was. She still hasn't looked at him, and his fingers are digging too hard into her thin shoulders now but he simply can't stop himself. He is standing too close; her crossed arms and folded legs are hard against his chest, forcing a barrier between him and the fierce knot of her body. "Please talk to me." She has to understand. She mumbles something into her kneecaps, but he can't make it out. "What? What did you say?"

To his relief, she looks up at last. There is a trail of snot snaking towards her upper lip, and tears streaking her face. She looks, unexpectedly, quite livid.

"I said I know, you idiot. I know you love me, I know you're sorry, I know, I'm not stupid, you rube. But I ruined it all, and you miss it, clean shirts and clean conscience. You know you do. And I make you feel like a failure, and you're angry with that, aren't you? Because you can't fix me, you can't undo it ever, Humpty Dumpty fallen down the rabbit hole, looking glass all smashed, no way back now." He stares. Her face is very close to his now, and she doesn't look like a child at all. She looks like a stranger speaking a language he almost knows, the planes of her face pure and angry. "I know what you want. You want to escape into her, don't you? You want to pretend it isn't real, and play at being someone else. She makes you feel like someone else. She lets you forget. You want to forget. You still don't see her. You don't see me." Simon doesn't know what to say. "Some days I think I could hate you."

"I don't – I never meant," he stammers. "I just want to help. I love you."

"Not enough, though," River snarls, unfurling her limbs with a speed that leaves him breathless. Suddenly Simon is enfolded in her le

"Not enough, though," River snarls, unfurling her limbs with a speed that leaves him breathless. Suddenly Simon is enfolded in her legs and arms, an embrace that feels more like an attack. He laughs uncertainly, breathlessly, and she makes a frustrated noise almost like a growl. "Stupid. Stupid. Thicker than water. You're clinging to outdated paradigms, trying to hold on to the wrong thing. Spinach. Stupid." Her breath is hot on his neck. He wraps his arms around her uncertainly and pats her on the back like a colicky infant. "No! Not like that," she says, and her wet mouth closes shockingly over his earlobe. He jumps, and yelps, and she bites down hard.

"River! River, I – what do you think – stop it! Stop it right now!"

She pulls her head back far enough that she can look at him. His eyes meet hers, questions and protests bristling unspoken between them, things he doesn't know how to say (surely he has misunderstood this?), and then she darts forward and kisses his mouth in a way that will not allow any misunderstanding at all.

Desire uncurls somewhere inside, all the more tempting for being utterly forbidden. His body, he finds, really does not care what is acceptable.

He pushes her away. He is shaking.

"No," he says unevenly. Her fingers are still tangled in his hair. She is hurting him. "No. No. This is wrong." Simon's voice is stronger now. She snorts, looking at him with that same pitying look she would always use when he made some assertion that she, his precious, precocious pain of a sister knew to be nonsense – even though all the books confirmed his ideas – and it is all so familiar and so intimate, so hideously, impossibly right that he feels exhilarated and sick to his stomach.

"Stupid," she says, pulling away from him slowly. "You'll see. I know, you dummy. I'm right." She sits back on the table and cocks her head, studying him closely. He stares at her, lost for words. She smiles, and offers him her arm. He looks at it blankly, and against all expectation she laughs. "Blood," she says. "It's what you wanted."

You know, I'm completely Firefly-ignorant. Never watched it.

But the fic? Is lovely lovely lovely.

Thank you! ( Firefly broke my heart. Or rather, F*x did. Curse them.)