Author's Note: This is pre-slash, Mal/Simon, but it's probably subtle enough that you might not notice if I hadn't mentioned it. The story is framed together in a series of snapshots, and it's all about what isn't said…

Sometimes the 'verse stood still. It caught a moment, one of 'em you most wanted to get past, and just froze it there—made you watch, and wouldn't let you move. He'd lived so many moments like that in his life, but instead of getting easier to move through it got harder instead. Being helpless would never get routine.

"I swear to you, Arisei," Mal growled, pulling at the men holding him back. "I will kill you, and it will be slow. You put that gun down—now!"

Arisei Lang was more amused than intimidated. "Found an Achilles' heel now, have I, Mal?" he asked, giving a wide grin.

Mal's eyes slipped away from the cruel smile to Simon, right across from Arisei, a gun held in his hands. His grip on it was steady, but his eyes gave him away. He wasn't near prepared enough to fire, and Mal wasn't sure he could even hear them, he seemed somewhere else. He watched as Simon ran his tongue behind his teeth nervously, a habit he had, and loosened and then tightened his hands around the gun.

He couldn't take this, couldn't take not moving. Simon could move if he wanted, but he wasn't. "Gorrammit, Simon, shoot him!" Mal yelled. If he just pulled the trigger it would be over, he just had to pull it first.

Arisei grinned at Simon with all the assurance of a man who knew he had the upper hand. "This boy ain't gonna shoot me, Mal. You know him so well and you can't figure that?" Arisei was holding his own gun one-handed, casually, it was only irreverence, on his part, that kept him from firing.

Mal tried to pull away again, but two of Lang's men had him held secure. The only reason they hadn't grabbed Simon yet was Arisei liked to play games, and he'd decided within forty seconds that Simon would make a nice pawn. Mal had seen it, had cursed himself for agreeing to bring the doctor at all, but it had been too late to diffuse any of it. He'd been tackled from behind a moment later.

Simon glanced over at Mal, an apology in his eyes because Arisei was right. He couldn't do it. Mal knew he couldn't, wouldn't, even for his life, especially just for his own, Simon Tam wasn't a killer. He couldn't pull the trigger and he was sorry about it. Mal was too, but he wished he didn't have to be. Simon Tam should be on Osiris, he shouldn't be here.

"Sorry," Simon whispered. "I can't…" He let the gun fall to his side, then let it slip from his fingers. Mal's eyes widened in horror, but if the gun made a sound when it crashed against the ground, he didn't hear it.

"Hell, Mal, he can't even fire a gun," Arisei said with a laugh, aiming the gun at Simon's head. "I'm doin' ya a favor."

Arisei fired, but someone else had fired right before, sending his shot wild. Simon felt it glance across his shoulder, ripping a shallow trail across his skin. He reached up to grab it, felt red liquid slip over his hand. When he looked up Arisei was standing suspended, eyes wide—he stayed that way for what couldn't have been more than a handful of seconds, and then he fell.

Two more shots rang out before it could all register, and the men restraining Mal were thrown backwards where they landed with a dull thud, and then went still.

"Dark favors are the brand of bad men," River whispered. Simon turned, disbelieving, to see his sister standing beside him, holding a smoking gun. She gave him a shy smile. "It's okay," she said. "I didn't look."

Mal lost his balance without support, and fell to his knees.

-----

They'd taken the money off Arisei and put the cargo back in the hold. Another job gone wrong, but at least they'd come out on top. Mal ran a hand down his face, trying to pull the memories away, keep them from flashing behind his eyes. It didn't help, but he hadn't expected it to. He kept hearing Simon tell him he was sorry.

The bullet wound on Simon's shoulder was barely a scratch, he'd used a bandage, not stitches. Everything was fine, it had all worked out. He should be moving on, striding right past it. It wasn't like time was still standing firm, only some part of it was, because whenever he closed his eyes he was right back there again.

"I'd rather die standing, Simon said," River whispered out of nowhere, "when Early told him to sit." Mal glanced up in surprise. River had lowered herself part way down the hatch to his bunk, and was watching him from her upside down point of view. "Look or not, it doesn't matter to him. He won't do it."

Then she disappeared again, and he heard the hatch slam shut.

-----

It was an argument he shouldn't have started. He knew that. He knew that and had done it anyway, because he wanted to get moving right again. He was tired of Simon apologizing, over and over, in that same moment in his mind. If he was sorry he should fix it.

"You should have killed him," he said again.

Simon was pushed to his limits, and Mal knew that was his own fault. He was pushing every button that he could, he just didn't know why. "I took an oath!" Simon shouted. "Do no harm."

He wanted to, but knew he couldn't back down. "Out here, that ain't worth a damn," Mal snapped. "Get over it and next time fire the damn gun."

"You don't get over it," he snarled. "It's part of you."

Mal was somewhat surprised by his vehemence. Simon had fire in him, but that had never been in doubt. "The doctors that had River in their hands didn't hold to it," Mal said, clenching his fists at his sides. If you're sorry, then you fix it.

Simon was incredulous. "Are you actually trying to use that as a selling point with me?"

He ignored him. "You took up a gun to get me away from Niska," Mal continued.

Simon straightened defensively. "That was different. Your life was at stake and I wasn't aiming to kill, just to wound, and even then, I aimed a little further off to the edges just to make sure they wouldn't be too badly--"

"Hurt?" Mal finished. "How considerate of you to worry about injuring the men trying to kill you too badly."

"This was different," Simon said again, sounding almost desperate. "He was three feet away, Mal, I was looking right in his eyes. I couldn't…I just…"

"You could have died," Mal said, crossing his arms. "Probably you should have, we got lucky. Next time, Simon, you had better damn well shoot first."

Simon met his eyes defiantly. "I can't promise that."

"Rather leave River without you, then?" he demanded. "Way I see it, without you, she ain't got much chance. We'd do what we could, but you know it wouldn't be enough."

"If it was River he'd been threatening I would have killed him!" Simon yelled.

"It's not River I'm worrying about," he said tightly. "She's proven she can take care of herself. You get yourself knocked around and shot, and I know it isn't because you're too weak to fight back, Simon, it's just because you won't, and that stops now."

All the energy Simon had seemed to bleed away and he shook his head. "I wasn't in your war, Mal," he whispered. "I'm not a mercenary."

"I didn't say you were," Mal snapped. "I just said you should have defended yourself."

"You can't control everything," Simon said, pushing past him. "You don't control me."

Mal didn't turn to watch him go. He knew that already, and it was what scared him most.

-----

He finds him the next day in the cargo bay with Jayne, firing soft metal bullets at targets tacked up on empty crates. He watches Jayne move Simon's hands, adjust his aim. Simon fires, and hits the target dead on. He doesn't remember moving, but the next instant he's between them, pulling the gun from Simon's grip and shoving it at Jayne.

"What the hell are you doing?" he snapped. Jayne looks annoyed, but Simon looks stricken.

"I'm teachin' the boy to shoot," Jayne said. "The bullets can't pierce the hull."

Mal didn't know why he was so angry, but he knew it wasn't because he thought the bullets would pierce the hull. Jayne was stupid, but not that stupid. He grabbed Simon's arm and pulled him away without another word to Jayne. Simon said nothing either, just let him drag him along, quiet until they reached the engine room and Mal pulled him in.

Once he was sure it was empty and Kaylee wasn't hiding beneath the engine, he turned to Simon. "What was that?" he snapped.

Simon didn't look at him. "You want me to be able to defend myself," he said simply.

For some reason, Mal had hoped it was something else. That maybe Jayne had forced him into it. He had wanted to believe that if Simon had gone to someone for help, it would have been him. "Jayne isn't the one to teach you," he snapped. He didn't know why his voice sounded so cold, and he wasn't sure why he felt so desperate. "I don't trust him."

Simon finally looked up. "Trusting Jayne would be stupid," he said simply. "Still, he has his strengths. Isn't that why you keep him around?"

"I don't want you practicing with him again, is that clear?" Mal snapped.

"He's the best choice for it," Simon said, avoiding a straight answer.

Mal shook his head. "You don't know…"

"Don't know what?" Simon interrupted coolly. "Don't know that he sold me and my sister to the feds? Is that what I don't know, Mal, is that what you didn't want to say?"

Mal was caught off guard. He licked his lips nervously and glanced at his feet before looking back up. "You…ah, know about that?"

Simon's expression remained cool. "River told me," he said, and turned away. "Nice of someone to, don't you think?"

-----

"You know why I do it," Mal whispered. "Why I act like this when it comes to you."

Simon glanced at the doorway at the voice. Mal was taking up all the space, leaning lop-sided, blocking the way. Not that Simon was going to try and leave. The infirmary was his safe haven, and he wasn't going to be forced out of it, even by Mal. "I don't have the slightest clue, Captain."

"If things were different…" Mal wasn't looking at him. He couldn't seem to ever look at Simon these days, not if he wanted to keep moving.

"If things were different," Simon said, whimsically. "You could spend a lifetime thinking of the way things could be if one thing had changed."

"I'm not the type for that," Mal said. "I just…"

"I'm not, either," Simon interrupted softly, "but if it means anything, I would have shot him if he was aiming the gun at you."

"I'm not the one that deserves to be saved," Mal said. "If things were different, maybe you could see that."

-----

When he dreams, things are different. Well, they're either different, or they're exactly the same. The difference between dreams and nightmares, a good day and a bad one. On the good days he knew the problem was that he cared too much, on the bad days, he thinks it would be better if he didn't care at all.

He thinks too much has probably happened now to fix it all. They were all of them fugitives, not just the Tams, not just the ones with the bounties on their heads. Everyone was running from something. He was running from 'what if's. Simon was running from himself. If they were smarter they would slow down. Mal would stop playing games to keep distance and tell him the truth. Simon would admit he had known all along.

In his dreams, he's the one that says he's sorry.

-----

"I don't want you to have to kill someone," Mal explained, later that night. "You do know that, don't you? It isn't what I want."

"I can't live here and be weak," Simon said. "That's become quite clear."

"You've never been weak," Mal snapped. "You've been a hell of a lot of things, Simon, but you ain't never been weak."

"You don't know as much as you think." Simon glanced at him. "I don't know what you want from me, Mal. I'm tired of trying to figure it out."

"I don't want anything," Mal said instantly. "Just for you to be alive, for my crew to all be alive."

"To keep flying," Simon said wryly.

"Yes," Mal said.

"And if next time I can't pull the trigger, what then, Mal?" Simon glanced at him tightly.

"We'll deal with it," Mal said, and stepped back when Simon laughed.

Simon fell back against the wall and closed his eyes. "You want me to defend myself, now you don't want me to defend myself—god, Mal, just what the hell do you want from me?" The words probably should have been yelled, but as it was, Mal barely heard them.

He stepped forward into Simon's space, wrapping his fingers around his arms, holding him there, his fingers digging into the skin—any tighter, and there would be bruises in the morning. "What do you want, Simon?" Mal demanded softly.

"Right this moment?" Simon whispered, and Mal nodded. "I want what River wants—I want to melt away."

So Mal let him go, stepping away with a sudden feeling of dread, but the feel of him beneath his fingertips lingered—skin and bone, the edge of a finely woven shirt.

Simon was solid. That wasn't going to change.