Firefly - Jayne, River, Crew
“Thing’s I don’t understand,” Jayne says slowly over dinner, “is why my lead on that virus-choked cargo ship traces back to the gorram governor.”
Meals are quiet these days; everyone’s too shattered for talk, so his words fall into silence. Mal glances up sharply; he’s raked Jayne across the coals repeatedly for that intel, not really expecting much out of it. “You what now?”
Jayne nods grimly. “Followed up on the guy who sent me the codes. Encryption spread pretty far but I asked River to poke about. Host port lines up with yon mighty fine council house. Interesting, no?”
***
River wanders the gangways of Serenity, the untidy cargo hold, the narrowly curving corridors of the crew’s quarters. Like everyone, she’s bone-tired and her eyes burn from staring at screens all day, but she finds peace in this: following the hidden pathways of the ship; spreading out her senses to listen to a particular subliminal whisper that grants access to a forgotten server of data.
She can’t always tune out the people, a fact that Jayne has spluttered about at length (though you don’t even need a psychic; Simon is loud).
Tonight she’s in luck. Just Serenity, peeling back secrets.
***
They’re all talking over each other when she meanders back to the mess. Always so loud, always so eager to be heard. It makes her whole head ache sometimes.
She stops at the entrance, taking a moment to observe them. Their bonds are more volatile than they used to be, raw data blowing up pathways. But they still share a core, a bond that River can almost physically feel. They may not all like each other, or sit easily in current configurations. But they’re family. River thought that meant something immutable once; she was wrong. Love, in particular, is changeable.