Warnings: Character death, extreme violence, attempted non-con/rape, angst.

Thanks to for the great beta and to for urging and advising me on.

Part1

“Don’t want to hear Simon; shut it out, shut it up inside or go crazy.”

Hands were turning him onto his back now, fingers stroking at his clammy forehead and making him shiver, but Simon couldn’t pull away from them any more then he could stop listening to the soft words. Soft words, so much better than screaming, than begging or pleading. The gun hung limply from his hand but Simon didn’t have the strength to pick it up again, to feel desperation overtake him every time the chamber clicked hollowly. His vision blurred, as he stared up at the sun, almost was all forgotten as the fingers stroked over his face, trying to soothe and calm where there was no such emotion left to muster up.

“Can’t stay here, can’t hide and pretend, face our demons.”

The words were soft but said so firmly, so lucidly that they broke through Simon’s resignation. His sister’s name was murmured from his lips in confusion, as her appearance pulled him back from his preferred reality to actuality. To screams which were growing louder by the moment, cries for help and sounds of fighting invading the warm nothingness his mind had been creating.

“Move now.”

Simon wasn’t sure if she rolled him back onto his belly or if he did, but he was already on his knees ready to crawl away from it all and hide. Ready to forget it all. Then his eyes fell on Jayne, lying so still yet so brutalised and exposed, body open for all to gawp at or degrade. Hurts to feel. There was a nothingness inside Simon; he couldn’t cry, couldn’t scream, couldn’t do anything more than pull himself over to the man who’d saved him, the man who for one brief minute Simon had thought he’d saved too. But it had been only mercy he’d given Jayne.

River was by his side, kneeling down and staring at Jayne’s body wearing an expression Simon couldn’t look at and wouldn’t want to see. Anguish and hate intermingled.

His fingers were stroking over the mess on Jayne’s belly, unable to look at the man‘s face, at the hollowed out shell where accusing eyes should be. Their was growing need inside him to do something, to heal Jayne or wake from the nightmare even though River whispered to him that that couldn’t happen.

Dignity in death.

His thoughts and yet Simon couldn’t voice them, could only think them as he grasped his ripped shirt laying it almost reverently over Jayne’s belly. Blood stained the white silk the moment he set it down, but still hid the grotesque damage done.

Howls caught Simon’s ears as he glanced towards the road hearing the thump of feet, too close yet still not pushing him to move, not enflaming his survival instinct. Instead it was River’s coaxing, her sharp words and pleas that pushed him to move. Words that forced him on, pulling his legs up underneath him and ignoring the pain that shot through him; guilt that made him forget his nakedness and the bruises and bite marks that covered his body. Guilt and shame, the only two emotions powerful enough to push him in the absence of all others.

His breaths were harsh, long and shuddering and the feeling of pointlessness kept threatening to overwhelm as with every movement Simon awaited the feel of hands upon him again. But even River didn’t touch him, just pulled herself backwards upon her knees, pleading with him and forcing his eyes to hers.

“You can’t leave me, Simon.”

The door was ajar, thankfully, and Simon could twist onto his buttocks, gasping a little as pain lashed through him, glad that that it made no sound as he pushed past it and crawled in. The musky stench inside was a welcome change to the coppery smell that had permeated his senses, the scent of horses reminding Simon of Serenity and home. Of River who loved to ride and Mal who sometimes wore such a scent.

Home.

The word was almost foreign to him, only the smell reminding him, pushing at his memory. It seemed like an age since he was last there. There were no horses, all escaped or perhaps let lose as distractions for the Reavers but even without the reassuring warmth of their bodies something about the place called to Simon. Safety, it embodied safety; however much of a fallacy it was. Simon crawled towards the furthest stall, not wanting to be near door nor window, the solid wood surrounding the stall reassuring him.

The thought that he was lucky enough to find one that had not been occupied was lost on Simon, not caring for mess or dirt at that moment and perhaps never again. The doctor in him, all that was human within him, suppressed by River’s coaxing and pushed away as he crawled into the stall. Straw grated at his sore body, scratching along the sensitive abused skin but Simon barely felt the pain as he burrowed into it, letting it fall over him and hide his body. Only his eyes were free of it, back pressed up against the hard wood behind him, fingers clenching as River lent over him her body weighing nothing as she lay atop him.

You can’t leave me Simon.

His body shook as emotion slipped through for a moment, anger and fury . He hated her for saying that to him, for making him need to survive more than let him embrace and ignore and yet he couldn’t find the strength or will to push her away. That was all centred on keeping his breaths even, on focussing on nothing but the in out motion and imagining the air leaving his lungs and mouth. Keeping his breaths quiet, though the likelihood of him being heard was small. He could hear them again now; people screaming and begging, trying to fight back or perhaps even hide like he was. Yet there was no respite, no relief from the trauma. Only the never-ending howls of anguish which echoed all around him, the Reavers moving stealthily as they picked each one off, one by one.

Fingers unclenching, leaving crescents of purple which welled up with blood upon his hands, Simon jammed a hand into his mouth; his arm encircled his head, trying to block everything out. He could taste blood, the metallic taste he’d smelt earlier yet it did nothing for him. Didn’t centre and thankfully not arouse. The small soft voice in Simon’s head was more grateful for that one, the fleeting memory of another survivor coming to his mind. One who lay down and embraced the acts not done to him, but done to those he cared for, those shown no compassion.

It didn’t help, he could still hear them; still jumped when something splattered against the side of the building, loud and jarring even in the scream filled air.

“Not a sound, not a motion, don’t listen Simon. Don’t let yourself listen.”

Simon jammed his fingers in his ears, trying to block out River’s words as much as the noises, fingers curling and scratching with blunt nails as he pushed them deeper and deeper in.

“Madness is catching, don’t let it find you. Don’t listen to it.”

The Reavers’ madness, her own, or perhaps even Simon‘s own--he wasn’t sure which she meant just kept digging his fingers in deeper, gritting his teeth as the cries faded, River faded and a sharp pain blossomed in each ear. Yet he still ground his fingers in, gritting teeth so tightly his jaw ached, curled in a foetal position as he lay so still in the straw.

His eyes clenched closed, though there was no chance of sleep no matter how exhausted. Simon didn’t see as the sunlight started to fade, didn’t hear the ship’s engine whine back into life before the Reavers left. He wouldn’t have known, wouldn’t have cared, if there were other survivors perhaps not even if there were Reavers left he was locked in his tortured position, unwilling and unable to move.

Until the demands of his body forced him to. Until the build up of acid in his muscles and need for relief became unbearable and Simon uncurled his cramping limbs and opened his eyes. It was darker around him, close to dusk. He flinched as shadows danced and swayed, making him fear the Reavers surrounded and watched him. Not caring about hygiene or the demands of his body, Simon satisfied them, feeling warmth splash on his thighs as he moved so very slowly and pulled his fingers from his ears.

“You hurt.”

Simon squinted up at River, his gaze flicking to where hers lay, to the blood on his fingers. Mine or Jayne’s? Could have been both or either, Simon didn’t care as he curled back up in a ball, reveling in the ringing in his ears, a ringing which drowned out all other noises. Not that there were any, the town was silent and still. A ghost town where only memory and the dead now laid.

Dead…just like Simon felt inside, nothing there but a shell, one too weak to hold itself.

“Dead things don’t feel compassion; they don’t give mercy.”

Simon couldn’t look at her, couldn’t see the certainty in her face. He didn’t want to feel anything, doesn’t want anything but this numb detached feeling surrounding him. He’d rather the daze dreamlike world of unreality her words denied him, her very presence pulled him back from.

“Reavers are dead things. They keep moving, but they are still dead inside. Let themselves sink into the madness, pulled there by the betrayal of their own bodies, unable to fight or resist.”

Yet I should.

His jaw ached too much to open his mouth and say the words, not wanting to draw Reavers closer either, but she heard the words anyway. Answered that which had been rhetorical, not a question.

“Yes.”

Couldn’t cry, couldn’t laugh, couldn’t feel anything when she said the word. Simon could barely even look at her though she knelt behind him, her fingers gently stoking at the straw which covered his body, the straw that hid his nudity. He should have felt shame, embarrassment at being unclothed in front of his sister and once upon a time he would have. But not now. There was no place for modesty and shame as there was any other emotion inside Simon. All he could feel was the numb cool feeling, almost as though he’d been bathing in frigid water for too long. Numb inside, even if not out.

He itched, an uncomfortable feeling that Simon was too tired to dwell on, to react too, but River’s continual chatter was making it harder and harder to retreat to the blissful avoidance he craved-reminding him of where he was, or what was happening, even if the doctor within him refused to categorise it. Even if the doctor still existed.

“Compassion, mercy killing.”

Simon wanted to turn his head away, to screw his eyes closed once more and ignore her. To let the ringing in his ears drown out anything she might say. Yet she easily talked over it, her dark eyes trapping his gaze, strangely sane even if her words were often disjointed.

“Jayne would have done the same.”

No. He came back.

Funny that now Simon can’t even feel anything when she speaks Jayne’s name, yet he remembers how the man came back; remembers the feel of Jayne beneath his fingers, the man’s organs cooling rapidly despite the temperature.

He’ll be smelling soon, shirt will stop carrion feeding. Looking the same, no visible signs of death, rigor mortis takes hours. Maybe they’ll take the Reaver instead, maybe make Reaver-animals, spread the disease along the food chain.

Were they his thoughts? Simon wasn’t sure, didn’t know where the detached, indifferent voice that spoke in his head had come from. It hadn’t sounded like him, normally his thoughts did unless he was remembering something, remembering someone. This voice was different, new and almost clinically detached. And Simon didn’t like it.

“Man who doctors himself, has a fool for a patient. Starts overanalysing, stops feeling, starts becoming.”

Physician heal thyself.

Simon remembered the phrase repeated in jest at Medcad though he can’t understand what River means. Perhaps he doesn’t even want to understand it. Being a doctor, it meant everything to him, yet now it means nothing. He feels like nothing. Just empty.

“Going home soon Simon.”

He wanted to turn away as she stroked his arm, wanted to avoid eyes that stared at him so steadily, seeming to bore into his soul and hold him in place. Refusing to let nature take him over, refusing to let him go. He hated her. Hated all of them. The feeling washed over him so sharp and clenching that he curled even tighter, fists clenching in on themselves and nails drawing blood. She wouldn’t leave him, wouldn’t let him go, wouldn’t let him sink and wallow and be free.

“Something better then nothing.”

There was sorrow in her voice yet Simon could see relief flashing in her eyes, the emotion so quick he almost missed it, his own emotion nearly blinding him to hers. The hate was so strong it hurt him, caught at his chest and twisted his heart but he didn’t make a sound. Not a flicker of emotion showed on his face, nor did his eyes sting with the angry tears he felt building inside. Churning into a mass of seething furious, frustrated emotion which had one word behind it. One word he couldn’t yet hear.

“Family coming. Not blood, yet bound in it.”

No family. That’s something Simon has no trouble thinking or feeling, the acceptance only churning up the emotion that sits in a lump on his belly and chest, feeling he can’t face. He meant it too, he has no family. Not now, not again. Only the illusion of it, from his childhood from those who were meant too be to those he’d wanted to think of as such. Those that had one thing in common, they’d all abandoned him.

His parents, their parents, who’d chosen to keep up appearances and play politics rather than save their daughter. Who’d disowned their only son and seen him as nothing more than a criminal or crazy for trying to keep their family together.

“Like to keep things shiny and hide the tarnished.”

Simon was sure it should be odd that she was making perfect sense to him, but he dismissed the brief thought his fingers absently scratching as the itchy skin on his arm, skin she’d been stroking. They’d have rather kept up the pretence then faced the truth, not wanting to admit they made a mistake, not wanting stir up trouble and lose their standing in society. Lose everything they worked for, everything they thought they earned.

Weak.

They wouldn’t fight back, wouldn’t take a stand. The idea was too foreign to them. Ironic that the one thing they considered the highest order in good breeding was sadly lacking in them-honour. Something that Simon had seen, had found surprisingly far from home and the Core.

“Ain’t no point gatherin’ up those who won’t make it, Reavers’ll be on us an’ they’ll slow us down. Not wishing that on no one, but can’t go wasting time up. ‘Sides, Reavers might not come lookin’ elsewhere if they find some up here.”

Funny that Simon should hear Jayne’s words in his head when he thought on honour. Ironic perhaps that the words themselves had been lacking in such an attribute, yet Jayne himself had proven he wasn’t. Ill-timed and inappropriate words, ones which proved fortuitous.

Jayne’s sentiment hadn’t gone over well, precious time had been wasted as the gathered people rose in uproar; the sheriff saving Jayne and mostly because Simon had been offering his services as a doctor, Mal having negotiated a fair price only leaving him with Jayne as muscle when another job offer came up. Saved him from a lynching, but the Sheriff couldn’t stop the people turning on Jayne in anger; their fear turning to rage as they trussed him up and dumped him in one of the jail cells.

An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. The words echoed in Simon’s head, as he remembered his own response. Pathetically heroic? Not quite. Ill timed and spontaneous, but Simon had been unable to leave Jayne and had managed to get the key from the Sheriff even before he too was trussed up. At least the man had left Jayne’s gun and knife on the table before he left, quietly reminding them that were anything to happen when they got out of the cells, there was always another way.

“You’ll have to kill me too.”

Jayne was right; those words never went down well. Not months before and certainly not now. Last time in defence of River, this time for Jayne. The crude, boorish, overly loud caveman knockoff that Simon had constantly sniped with, argued with and for sometime had played a tit-for-tat game with both banter and objects. The man who’d come back for him.

His family had never come back to him, yet Jayne had. Simon couldn’t fathom it, couldn’t get his mind around that fact and would have disbelieved it had he not lived it. River would have come back in a heartbeat, assuming she was sane enough to do so. Mal…Simon had no doubt he would have too. The captain had a quiet honour about him, hidden in the dry, growling demeanour he projected. Simon couldn’t help but regret never acting upon his instincts when it came to Mal, letting caution and suspicion guide him instead. He had no doubt he’d still be blind to who Malcolm Reynolds truly was, but at least then he’d feel more than just unconcerned at leaving his sister’s future in the man’s hands.

It was a quiet honour that extended to most of his crew. Zoe, Inara, Simon could see them coming back too, Wash and Book as well were they not already in the ground themselves.

Kaylee.

Simon shuddered as the image flashed in front of his eyes, the idea of touching her of accepting her flirtations repulsive to him now. Kaylee, who he’d always wanted to touch but now couldn’t stand the thought of sullying. His bloodied hands…Simon clenched his fists, screwing his eyes shut as if it would block out the images that assaulted his mind.

Kaylee’s normally cheerful face twisted in a grimace of distaste, Mal aiming true with his sidearm as revulsion crossed his features and River--who Simon could just open his eyes to look at and see for himself what she saw of him-his sister, whose expression could have morphed into something equally akin to horror and revilement. The only one who stood by him and hadn’t abandoned him, who he clung to and yet wanted to thrust away, who could send him over the abyss and break him with just a look if he dared look her way.

A harsh grating noise set Simon on edge, all his senses heightened and alert, focused on the door of his sanctuary. A door which had just rasped open. He couldn’t see it nor wanted to picture what could have walked through, instead all his attention was diverted to that which he couldn’t see. Body tense, trying to burrow deeper without making a sound, Simon tried holding his breath the harsh noise of his own airways seeming loud and revealing. Fear came rushing back, emotion foreign and unwanted disrupting the non-reality and musings he’d been immersed in. His eyes stung but Simon was unable to blink for fear of taking too long. For fear of what might lay in front of him when he did.

His eyes were starting to tear up, distorting his vision and playing with his mind as the evening shadows drew in closer making sweat run icy-cold down Simon’s back as he listened intently, cursing the ringing that drowned out his warning. An unwelcome relief at not having to wait on edge or a callous trick of Fate, Simon wasn’t sure but he certainly knew the emotion that swept through him as the distorted hands came into view. Bloodied and clenched, they were an unwelcome realisation to Simon as he sank lower into the straw, his breath hitching in his throat at the tortured body that followed it.

Mutilated, yet not broken, the Reaver thankfully had its face in shadow, turned away from Simon, as the doctor stiffened breath held in the hopes the Reaver would see nothing, find nothing and leave as quickly as it had come. It was a short lived hope as the creature turned towards him, making Simon almost choke as his breath spluttered out and caught; its face was beyond gruesome, lower mouth ripped down to it’s chin and pinned, slashes cut to give it a perpetual gut-wrenching smile. But it was the eyes that affected him most, eyes half dead yet seeming to darken with an unholy light as they rested upon Simon’s hiding place. Upon the doctor’s own gaze.

Simon felt his body contract, the need to vomit flooding him seconds before the Reaver moved with an inhumanely fast speed and plucked him deftly from the straw. Simon couldn’t stop shaking, terror replacing all other emotions as the Reaver held him aloft, shaking him slightly as one would an interesting toy, it’s eyes gleaming with a perverse delight, spurring the surreal question within Simon: why they could feel, when he couldn’t.

Just as though he were a toy, the Reaver dropped him, Simon falling limply to the floor a sharp cry whistling past his lips as his back connected with the hard ground. The only instinct moving through him, the only need propelling the adrenaline within him was to run, but the Reaver was already atop him knocking the air from his lungs as it covered him.

Kill me, break me, rip me apart, won’t stop, won’t ever lay down!

Gagging as the creature snuffled over his neck, sucking and tasting, not yet breaking his skin as its hands groped over his body; Simon chocked back a sob beating his hands on its face, ineffective and weak in distracting it from its goal. Hostility, aggression, delight--he could see emotions he could no longer feel in its narrowed eyes.

“…they'll rape us to death, eat our flesh and sew our skins into their clothing.”

The memory blasted through his mind, but as Simon felt the growing hardness against his thigh he couldn’t help but wonder how lucky he truly was. His blows had no effect, save to build up the Reaver’s enjoyment, his cries as garbled as they were would reach no ones ears even if there was anyone left.

Simon felt fingers winding through his own, diverting his attention from the hideous face in front of him and the brutal depraved acts being forced upon his resisting body as his eyes locked with River’s, concern and pain and sadness radiating from her as she gripped him more firmly. She pulled him away from the trauma thrust upon his body and focussed his mind on her, protecting him and shielding him. Every word she uttered, ever squeeze on his hand, pushed reality further and further away. Removing him from it as quickly as she earlier pushed him into it.

“Look into madness long enough and it looks back.” Her fingers stroked his forehead gently as he stared at her, the grunts and ringing in his ears dying away as he listened to her words. “Mind tricks, protecting, punishing, trying to break. Can’t get away from them, just keep seeing again and again, there or not. You’ll always see them.”

Simon tried to frown, tried to understand her but his body was feeling more drained, more exhausted than before. As though all life and energy were being pulled out at each of the Reaver’s eager thrusts.

“Using sex as a weapon. Power, control...chaos.” River’s voice was distant now, confusing Simon as she lent closer, his judgement more than impaired. “Need to look Simon, need to see what’s true.”

Simon turned his head, looking up at the Reaver, feeling nothing but a moment of distaste as a single strand of bloodied drool trickled down his chin. He lay placidly watching with clinical detachment as it violated him, the brutality of the act instilling no emotion in him. River was pulling away from him, distorting his grip on unreality, his mind slowly becoming unprotected as cold swept in bringing the harsh truth he’d run from. She was his rock in the swirling tide of emotion and pain which threatened to suck him down. And she was pulling away, leaving him wallowed in it.

He couldn’t understand, couldn’t process what it meant as the Reaver’s dark eyes lightened, showing a world of loathing and lust, as thrust by thrust they became bluer. Became more accusing and angered. As the Reaver’s features melted and morphed, mutilation still apparent as Jayne glared down at Simon, his features twisted and ravaged. His hands groping, body thrusting as Simon stared up at him unable to look away as warmth and wetness pressed against his belly.

“Horrors you‘ll never stop seeing.”

He could barely hear her, his own mind screaming in perfect sync to the ringing in his ears; fear and pain, shame and guilt beating at him, threatening to tear him apart as it wore him down. He flinched as her fingers stroked over his face seeming more real than before and hurting rather than healing, stroking sunburnt, sore cheeks. Simon was unable to look away from Jayne even as she loomed over him, her image clear and firm, shielding him from Jayne.

You’ve changed your dress.

It was the strangest thought to have and yet didn’t disturb Simon in the slightest, he was too content to sink, to let her hold him afloat with a strength he no longer had. He wasn’t sure why she had come back, wasn’t sure how she had changed or why he could no longer hear her just a muffled muttering of nonsensical words that meant nothing to him. There was no pain, no fear, no hate or even reassurance. Nothing but River. Yet that was enough to keep his fragile hold from breaking.

Simon had no way of knowing the extent disturbing tricks his mind had played on him, the Reaver ship long gone, Jayne’s body cold and claimed by the crew of Serenity. He merely lay placidly as River pulled his head onto her lap, pushing the straw over his lower body and shielding him as she stroked his face. He couldn’t hear her words and reassurances, couldn’t move or make a sound, just kept his eyes on hers as his vision swam in and out of focus. Mind ravaged and body not connected, heart and soul and feeling shielded or broken.

He didn’t hear Mal approach, stopping short only a small distance behind the woman he’d run after, the woman who’d eerily led them to both Jayne and Simon. Simon couldn‘t see what he did, can‘t see himself as Mal did in away that darkened the captain‘s face, brief reluctance replaced by just as brief compassion.

Mercy.

Mal’s finger hovered over his gun, stroking the holster as he looked down upon the battered and bloodied body of his doctor, unable to see past him to what should be done. There was an obvious relief and reluctance that clouded Mal’s face as River shook her head, the Captain shrugging off his long jacket before he took the long steps, the hard steps, towards Simon.

Knelt down beside the unresponsive man, neither Mal nor River could see the trauma replayed in Simon’s head as the word and cry so long suppressed now becomes free.

Why?

Eyes glassy and fixed, almost catatonic as River rocked him, a solitary tear moved down Simon’s cheek as she murmured lovingly to him.

“Time to go home, Simon.”

Translations: Gorram-god damn tā māde niao -goddammed Chuin-zi -moron