Summery: in something completely unrelated to canon, this popped into my head. Serenity, after the blast doors open. Rayne. Not related to Blasted.
It didn't occur to him right off.
But by the time he figured it out, it was too late.
On his knees in front of her for the second time, and this time waist high in dead Reavers.
But she’s too still and breathing too hard, and her eyes ain’t focusing.
And he knows if he comes near her looking anything like a threat, she'll kill him just as fast as she killed these others.
As fast as she will kill the Feds standing behind her, still half armed, not convinced that the crew shouldn’t be shot anyway.
And if she takes one down, they'll take the rest of the crew down, and while she might still kill 'em all, it wouldn’t help the crew if they’re dying or dead.
So, he kneels.
Blood soaks through his pants, but he ignores it. Ignores the bodies around him, ignores the mouth too close to his leg.
Her hands are cold, and her knuckles are white around the handle of whatever scary looking weapon she's got, and she flinches, just a bit, when he takes her hand.
He don't quite have to pry her fingers off of. She releases the weapon easy enough, but then she's panting, and he can tell she's close to losing it completely.
He guides her empty hand to his arm where she can hold on, and her fingers tighten in his shirt, right above where he got shot.
Her eyes are glassy, and she's starting to shake, and he gets the feeling that if he don't hurry, she's gonna lash out at whatever's closest.
Or go into a raging fit of hysterics.
Neither of which he wants to be right there under her for. Not like this.
She lets him take the second weapon from her, and she automatically grabs at his shoulder.
Little fingers dig in tight, and he winces.
He wishes this were the same as it was, last week, when he was kneeling down for another reason, in almost the same position.
Last week, she was holding on, and she was panting and moaning, but there weren't no Reavers and there weren't no weapons, just him and her.
Her dress had been pushed up above her waist, and his hands had been holding her tight 'round her hips to keep her from falling.
She’d cried out when he touched her, said she was burning up from the inside. She had grabbed his shoulders to give her something to hang on to.
She’s strong, for all that she’s so little, and she had left bruises behind.
He didn't mind.
He wants to see her like that again, all sweaty and shaking, 'cause of him and what he was doing.
Not like this. Scared and on edge and bloody.
He wants to see her throw her head back, feel her fingers tug at his hair, her hips jerk in his hands.
Her hands are hanging on to him, bruising his shoulders, but out of fear this time, not lust. He thinks that he don't like seeing her scared.
Not no more.
He finds that his hands are on her hips, and he looks up to see her watching him. She’s all kinds of shaky and pale, but she’s there, knowing who he is. Her hands tighten into fists in his shirt, and he leans forward.
Her hips jerk under his hands.