(Written in May 2003. Inspired by the series "Sharpe," FF series canon aired and unaired, as well as the script for "Dead or Alive." Certain elements concerning Mal's past tie in to some of my other stories.)

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Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction. No infringement is intended on the rights of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, or 20th Century Fox TV.

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"Where I Cannot Stand" Part 1 by HawkMoth ____________________

It didn't seem right that a man would prefer nightmares to dreams. Or that most nightmares could be banished and made insignificant by a few well-chosen curses and sheer willpower; while some dreams stayed etched in your memory far too long after they were over.

A nightmare was just a dream gone wrong. Dreams that made you feel worse than a nightmare did were the real horrors.

If anyone had ever asked Malcolm Reynolds what part of the war he wished he could forget, his answer would have surprised them.

******

What the Independents had going for them, what the Alliance never understood, was that the very thing they were fighting for--independence, freedom--bound them closer together than any concept of "unification." Ties of blood and kinship seemed fragile compared to the loyalties that made the browncoat army like a family.

A huge disparate family, seeming completely dysfunctional at times, but always managing somehow to see things right and get the job done. The job was war, and as the war waged on, those who were lost to the cause had to be replaced.

His name was Davey Daniels but from the first day he joined the platoon he was Davey-boy. For as young as some of them were, he was younger by far, a boy three years shy of twenty.

Age didn't matter for much in this army. There were plenty of soldiers in their thirties, just as many far older--old enough to be Davey-boy's father or mother, older still. Malcolm Reynolds' first captain had been a woman old enough to be his grandmother.

Mal was already the "old man" of the platoon's second unit, where Davey-boy was assigned--sergeant, mentor, big brother to them all, even the ones who had a few years on him. Sometimes he felt like he'd aged ten years in the four and a half since he'd left Shadow. They had lost troopers and gained them--lost quite a few over the winter at New Kasmir. Replacements were waiting after they shipped out and arrived at Talavera Base, to regroup and wait for their next deployment.

The fresh recruits were young and untried, most of them from worlds or moons that had only recently come over to the Independent cause. They made Mal tired just to look at them, but he was determined to teach them everything that would make them good soldiers, in what little time he had.

How to shoot, how to kill. How to survive, to live off the land. Stealth and cunning, resourcefulness and ruthlessness. To never forget that what they were fighting for was worth dying for, but always remember that living to fight on was worth a lot more.

He was tough, and sometimes not particularly fair, but he never lied to them and he was never cruel. The old hands of the unit served as examples and instructors. Days when his patience wore thin, Zoe was there with a word in his ear, always ready to provide suggestions and alternatives, backing him up all the way.

At first the recruits learned fast because they had no other option, then faster as they learned that Sarge would always treat them right, would never let them down. As they melded into the unit, it became evident that each of them brought something special--a talent for this, a flair for that. Some were strong. Others were whip-smart. Tiny Meg Pierson had astounding night vision. Primo Chan, who never spoke unless spoken to, was a born sharpshooter. Charlie Green could decipher codes in an instant.

Davey Daniels had a gift for music.

No one knew about it until the fourth week of training, ten days before they were scheduled to be reassigned. The lieutenant had authorized a down-day to reward the most recent battle exercise and troop review. Mal, Corporal Ashby and Zoe took the unit to an empty field in a far corner of the base with an issue of special rations for a mellow celebration.

It was more like a school holiday than anything else. The most naturally rambunctious troops quickly got up a game of rounders, while the rest settled for playing cards, or just sitting around, talking and eating. They'd come out with minimal gear, their weapons set nearby at the ready. True to their training, every few minutes someone would stop whatever they were doing, to look up at the sky, or scan the horizon.

Their sergeant relaxed, keeping a benevolent eye on the unit from a grassy hummock. Zoe was stretched out beside him, napping. Corporal Ashby, who took her soldiering very seriously, was busy cleaning her rifle, glancing up from time to time to watch the game. Charlie Green sat nearby, studying up for the communications exam he was due to take in two days.

Mal liked Talavera Base--it reminded him of home, and its current short summer was a godsend after the harsh, brutal months of New Kasmir. Only God and the brass at headquarters knew where the platoon was headed next, to guard some tiny, desolate moon or join a campaign on a strategic planet. Breaks like these were becoming less frequent as the war continued. He was due for some leave time soon, unless the cause fared badly in the next months. Shadow was still miraculously out of the war zone, and he longed for home--for the ranch and the prairie.

While his thoughts drifted homeward, the troops wound down somewhat. The players--rounders and cards--had called it quits. There were still small groups engaged in aimless conversation, while most everyone else seemed to be emulating their sergeant and his best buddy--daydreaming or sleeping. The quiet that had settled over the field was almost preternatural.

Mal breathed in deeply, hardly able to believe they'd been blessed with such a moment. He had learned too quickly, as generations of soldiers had before him, that war--any war, glorious, righteous, necessary, needless--was hell. A day like this--a slice of normality, a piece of heaven--was a gift from God and his angels.

And out of nowhere came the voice of an angel to prove it.

It took Mal a minute to register what he was hearing. Music--the soft yearning twang of a fiddle. Singing--a high, somewhat wistful tenor voice, but strong and pure. He knew the tune and the words. It was the old Hundredth, a hymn of praise and glory.

Zoe raised her head, then sat up slowly, listening alongside him in wonder. "Who...?" she whispered.

Charlie pointed across the field, to where they had pitched a small mess tent earlier in the day. Most of the troops were now congregated around it, sitting or lying in the grass. "There. It's Davey-boy."

Mal stood up to get a better look. Sure enough it was young Davey, the unofficial baby brother of the unit--of the whole gorram platoon, perched on a crate, fiddle cushioned to his chest as he sang his heart out.

The boy had been one of the toughest challenges Mal had faced since he'd gotten his rank patch. Too young to be from home, too young to be a soldier. But he believed in the cause as strongly as any of them--maybe more, for word had come down through the chain of command that Davey had lost all his kin in an Alliance raid on Bernadette some months before, and had run off from his foster family to enlist when the Feds came back to claim the planet as their own.

But what Mal had seen deep in the boy's eyes the first week of training was not a grief-driven angry need for revenge, simply a burning desire for justice. For the 'verse to be made right. He wasn't weak, but he needed to be made stronger. Strong and knowing how to fight, how to face war before he had any further taste of its horrors.

Time was, when the lines were being drawn before the Alliance was aware of them, recruits got up to three months of training and drilling. After the declaration and the first few skirmishes and battles, it dropped down to two and half. By the time that Malcolm Reynolds had been a sergeant for six months, it was more like six weeks. Nowadays it was a hell of a lot less.

The month he'd had with these newest soldiers on Talavera was an absolute luxury he doubted he'd be granted again. But they hadn't let him down. They'd all shaped up nicely--even Davey-boy, who despite putting on some muscle and finally needing to shave, still appeared the innocent choir boy he was sounding like right now.

"...till suns shall rise and set no more." Davey finished the hymn with a flourish on the strings, and before his mates could do more than nod and murmur in appreciation, launched into a hearty rendition of The Ballad of Boros Bill. It set everyone off to laughing and singing along with the chorus.

Mal chuckled and glanced at Zoe. "Figures the boy would know the clean version," he said.

"His daddy was a music teacher," Ashby spoke up. She'd set her rifle aside and was listening as raptly as the rest of them.

"You know that?" Mal asked. "How come I don't know that?" He tried to find out a few little personal things about every one of his people, but all he really knew about Davey was that the boy had no family left, and wasn't a quitter.

Ashby shrugged. "I overheard him talking to little Meg one day," she said. "You know the boy's a quiet one, Sarge, and it's not like there's been any time for music these weeks."

Mal glanced at Zoe. She shrugged too and said, "Sorry, sir. He kept that fiddle well hid, too."

"That he did. Which is a good sign--meant he was taking his training seriously. But he picked a fine day to share his talent, and I surely hope we get a few more such opportunities in the future." Even as he said it, Mal knew it was unlikely, though perhaps possible. But the music was making everyone feel good, so it felt like a good thing to say.

The lively ballad came to an end, and Davey-boy grinned and gave a little bow as his audience started clapping and cheering. He pointedly ignored the few catcalls requesting the "other words" and tucked up his fiddle with care, pausing a moment with his eyes shut. A hush of expectation fell over the troops.

As Davey set his bow dancing across the strings, Mal found himself drawn to move closer. The notes were sharp and short, almost like a drum beat. At the same time they were deep and stirring, something akin to a trumpet call.

Zoe followed close behind him, Ashby and Green in their wake. They stopped when he did, not wanting to get too close and disturb the mood the music was creating. Davey played on, seemingly unaware of their presence, staring out and away over the crowd, his blue eyes focused on the distance as he began to sing.

"Here's forty shillings on the drum For those who'll volunteer to come To 'list and fight the foe today. Over the hills and far away."

Mal felt a shiver run down his spine, for suddenly young Davey sounded old beyond his years.

"O'er the hills and o'er the main, Through Flanders, Portugal and Spain. King George commands and we obey. Over the hills and far away."

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Zoe frown at the mention of a king.

"When duty calls me I must go To stand and face another foe. But part of me will always stray Over the hills and far away."

Davey's voice soared in the chorus. Mal heard Ashby softly trying to sing along, stumbling over the strange place-names. Zoe's foot was tapping the dirt while her head swayed in time.

"If I should fall to rise no more, As many comrades did before, Then ask the fifes and drums to play. Over the hills and far away."

The fiddle played louder now, vibrantly underscoring each word. A few others gamely joined in the chorus, their faces intent as the song drew them in. Davey took no notice, and even from where he stood Mal could see the pain in the boy's eyes.

"Then fall in lads behind the drum, With colours blazing like the sun. Along the road to come-what may. Over the hills and far away."

The unit all joined in on the last line of the verse, and swung easily into the chorus like they'd known the words forever. The song had that kind of spirit, driving straight through your heart and down into your soul. Mal watched and listened, his throat gone tight and his mouth dry. He hadn't felt so stirred, so moved with pride and honor, since the last Founders' Day on Shadow, before the Alliance had banned all such events.

"O'er the hills and o'er the main. Through Flanders, Portugal and Spain. King George commands and we obey. Over the hills...."

Davey's voice faded on the final line, and the others dropped out with him, the fiddle filling in the last notes plaintively. Then the boy lowered his instrument and dropped his head, silent.

There was no applause, no cheers. Slowly, by ones and twos, the soldiers got to their feet, quietly breaking up into small groups again, or moving off to fetch their gear. A few passed by Davey-boy, dropping a hand onto his shoulder for a moment, or murmuring a word in his ear.

Mal collected himself, clearing his throat and tugging at his coat. He felt as if he'd just stepped out of church, and judging by the expressions he saw on his men and women, they were feeling something similar.

A suspicious sound came from behind him and he whirled around, but not in time to see who was sniffling. Ashby and Green were staring at the ground, but Zoe met his gaze dead-on as she always did.

"Bet you'd never see or hear a thing like that in an Alliance camp, sir," she commented.

"Never in a million years," he agreed. "That's 'cause the Alliance ain't got a soul."

"That boy surely does," Ashby said, knuckling one eye unashamedly. "You oughta go say something to him, Sarge. Perk him up a bit."

Mal glanced back, but Davey already looked a bit less forlorn, proudly showing off his fiddle to a couple of the guys. The music had probably served to get some grief and homesickness out of the boy's system for the first time since he'd joined up. It was up to Mal to let him know such a thing wouldn't be held against him--not in Malcolm Reynolds' unit at any rate.

He gave a nod of thanks to Ashby and strode over to where Davey still sat, about to put his fiddle in its case. The boy laid it aside and snapped to nervously when he saw Mal approach.

"S-Sergeant." He looked closer to thirteen and caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

Mal smiled. "At ease, Davey-boy. I never yet wrote a soldier up for making pretty music when he's off-duty."

The boy relaxed. "Thanks, Sarge. Meg--Private Pierson said it should be all right, this being a down-day and all."

Huh. So eagle-eyed Meg was taking the boy under her all of nineteen-year-old wing. Something he'd have to confer with Zoe and Ashby on, make sure it didn't get out of hand. There were no strict rules against fraternization in the Independent Army, but everyone knew it could lead to all sorts of trouble.

"I'd say it was the best day imaginable for it. Did everybody some good, I suspect. 'Specially that last one, Davey. I never heard it before, but I have the feeling it's an old song--old like that hymn you sung first."

"Oh, yeah, Sarge," the boy answered eagerly. "My da--" His smile went a bit lopsided but he recovered quickly. "I heard it was called the Soldier's Song back on Earth-That-Was."

Mal nodded, not pressing the boy for the source of his knowledge. "And a mighty fittin' name it is for a song that kept this bunch so enthralled. I'd take it as a favor if you'd find occasion to sing it again, Davey-boy. It ain't against the regs to make a little music in the barracks 'fore lights out."

Davey's face lit up with a huge grin. "Really, Sarge? I never dared to even think or ask about it, what with you working us so hard."

"Well, there's a time and place for everything, even in a war, Davey. We're not shipping out for a bit yet, and it'll just be prepping and light drilling and review until we do. So some music now and then to help pass the time won't go amiss."

"I'd be pleased to oblige, Sergeant!"

"Glad to hear it, Private." Mal waved a hand at the fiddle poking out of its case. "Now I imagine that a good musician, like a good soldier, takes proper care of his equipment. So while you finish putting that away, you can educate me further."

He motioned the boy to get on with it, so Davey quickly sat down and picked up the case. "What do you want to know, Sarge?"

"Well, as much as I liked that song, the chorus struck me as kind of odd. But if the song's as old as you say, then those places must be old--too old for most folks to recollect."

Davey listened as he tended to the fiddle's strings and polished his bow. "Oh, yes, Sarge. They were countries on Earth-That-Was, that got wars fought in 'em."

"I figured as much. But our war's not being fought over countries, Davey--we're fighting for worlds."

"And freedom, Sarge--independence. Some wars were fought for that on old Earth, too."

"That don't surprise me, Davey," Mal sighed, "people being what they are. And--what's the 'main' they traveled over?"

"Oh." Davey swiped his cloth over the fiddle then closed it up in the case. "The sea, Sarge--the ocean. The soldiers had to sail from their country to the country where the war was being fought." He grinned. "Like we sail through the black."

"From world to spinning world," Mal agreed. "But here's the thing I really didn't care for, Davey--those soldiers were following the commands of a king. We don't hold with kings--nor with governments that demand a say in how folks want to live their lives."

"No, Sergeant, we truly don't," Davey averred. "I'm sorry you don't like that part, Sarge," he added quickly. "But--I can't leave the chorus out, and you said you wanted to hear the song again. It wouldn't be the same," he finished mournfully.

"Well, Davey," Mal said, giving him an encouraging smile and a pat on the back, "a smart boy like you could maybe change the words a mite. Make it more fitting to be sung in our platoon."

Davey jumped to his feet, the case clutched to his chest. "Sure I could, Sarge! I'll think about it all the way back the barracks."

******

Conclusion