Eight Seconds

Author: Zoe_Jayne rating: G Words: 1000 Disclaimer: Joss is my Master now, so thanks for letting me play in your sandbox, luv. Beta: The ever wonderful Rinny and Miz Serra

"There's a feelin', boy," the veteran hand said, "about being right there at the top of a jump tht you know would have throwed most boys off. You're sittin' there with that handle in your hand, both feet pulled up to the riggin', looking down at the neck, and waiting for the jerk and snatch to hit ya. And right then, for one extremely small fraction of a second, everything is perfect. ou think you could fly right then. Free as a bird because, when everything is against ya, you're in control. For just that moment."

He knew that as he fired his pistol that he had made the worst shot of his life. He didn’t even bother to watch to see what happened, and he cursed violently under his breath, heard the sound of bullet hitting the roof, and sat back. The bricks shattered, sending a rust hued hail of chips and dust all over him.The chimney, his shield, would not last long and the parapet was all but destroyed. But then the shooting stopped as soon as it had come; the Purplebelly apparently didn't want to waste ammunition or maybe he just didn't know how weak the rooftop was. Still, Malcolm Reynolds contemplated surrender just to save himself the agonizing wait leading up to his imminent death.

"The next second, your back in the middle of that ride again. Arm gets jerked. Head snaps back. You try to tuck yer chin and drive your feet to the front. If you're lucky and good enough, you feel 'em catch the horse's neck, way out there somewhere just about the time your chin hits the chest and you suck your but back on the riggin'. An' then, you get another one of those fleeting moments when everything seems just right. And then it starts all over again for another jump. Jump after jump."

Mal was tired. He'd been in the firefight all night. That Purplebelly was probably camping out with an MRE in his hand. Nibbling at it methodically, waiting for Mal...alone and starving... to come out, waiting for a few more of his platoon to come so he could get down. He'd go back to his camp, thump his chest, brag about the fight he had with the Browncoat and his glorious victory.

"Sometimes, them poets say, out of the corner of your eye you catch a glimpse, like a ghost image that lurks just beyond your vision, moving every time you try to get a look at it, of that sublime. Kind of like looking at something in the dark. You know how to do that?"

Shaking his head, Mal felt the throbbing in his right arm, and his blue eyes closed in deep sleep. Only, two hours after he drifted off, a loud voice called to him from below the house.

"Hey! Hey you up there, Browncoat!"

"Eh?" Mal murmured sleepily, not daring to look. Maybe they were just waiting for him to lean over sos they could put a bullet through his head. Shaking his head, strands of brown fell into his face, a little longer than he liked. "What is it y'all fellas want down there?"

"We want you to come down from there. We won't harm you unless you fire. No shame in surrender-"

"Or you can kill me," Mal replied.

"Yes," said the Purplebelly in a voice that shrugged its shoulders and wore a hound-dog look.

He chose not to answer as his fingers clutched the gold crucifix that was his Mama's. They'd buried her in her Sunday Meetin' dress, but he'd kept that last link to her for his own. What was there for him to say? He was either going to die in an Alliance prison, or he'd die from having one too many holes than was good for a body. Either way...

"You hear me, up there, Browncoat? Don't have all day for you to decide."

"Hell, boy, people think we’re crazy, thinking we live for eight seconds. What’d they think if they knew it was just for those fleeting freeze frames of emotion? They’d have us committed."

"Yeah, I hear you," Mal muttered darkly. He jumped off the roof and fired as he fell at the Purplebelly below before he hit the cobblestone road on the back of his head with a sickening crunch. He moaned at the incredible pain, and gasped few words at the man, who remained unscathed from his sudden attack.

"See you…in hell…," he whispered.

The Alliance soldier who'd done the shouting, a lieutenant of the Second Corps if his coat was to be trusted, grasped his hand firmly and replied as he was supposed to. "See you in hell, Browncoat."

Then Mal felt it: the spatter of blood, the splinter of bone, a deafening rapport of fire the last sound he heard.

~*~

When Malcolm Reynolds came to, he realised he'd touched heaven. A specific part of it, anyway. And that part of Heaven had soft skin the colour of earth in spring, just after the thaw. Eyes deep and eternal, glittering in the dark from the light of the small campfire. With the most beautiful mouth Mal had ever seen, teeth bared at him in a half-mocking smile. And she was cleaning her rifle.

"You gonna live, sir?" Heaven said to him in a sweet, but gritty voice.

"Uhh...ma'am...uhhh. Hi!" He rolled painfully onto his side, and for lack of any kind of reason, he offered her his hand.

Heaven laughed. "Yep. Looks like. Warren, sir. Zoe Allyne Warren."

His eyes went wide. "You're Corporal Warren?"

She nodded. "Just sent over from the 193. I'm all that's left. You hungry?"

"Them poets talk about the sublime. You ever heard of that? The sublime, to them poets, means that there’s all sorts of magical and wondrous things out there, but we can’t see ‘em in everyday life. Just livin’ takes up too much of our consciousness. But every now and then, like in them jumps or when you see your boy’s head first peek into this world, you get a glimpse of what perfect is. "