Title: Filament, The

Author: Lemon Lashes

Email: lemonlashes@yahoo.com

Website: http://n/a

Characters: Wash, Simon

Pairing: Wash/Simon

Crossover?: No

Rating: NC-17

Genre: *slash*

Status: Complete

Warning: torturefest, very unpleasant

Summary: Niska is a vengeful little psycho, and he hires accordingly.

Category: Angst, Hurt-Comfort

Spoilers For: The Train Job

Characters: Not mine. Aren't they lucky? If nothing else, they'll live longer.


Filament, The
by Lemon Lashes
lemonlashes@yahoo.com

Zoe and the rest of the crew heavies are out tearing up Niska's domain while Simon hangs around feeling helpless and unnecessary. Then River sits up in bed. "Cat's dragging back," she says as he tries to ease her back down. The stress aboard SERENITY is so dense that the thought of having to wrestle her--emotionally or physically--is bruising. "Cat's dragging *back,* Simon."

"River..."

"Serpent thread, your favorite." She takes a loose strand of her sleeve and winds it around her tongue, segmenting it into three puffy hunks of red, and pulls until he's sure she's going to break the skin. A cold pulse--not quite fear--goes through him as he gently works it free.

"River, are you talking about Wash?"

She points toward the aft of the ship. "Out there, just... beyond. Open the hatch, you'll see."

"Captain's locked us down."

Her eyes glitter. "That's too bad. He's gone as far as he can on his own."

***

Simon doesn't know if Niska picked Wash deliberately or if he was just lucky in some unaccountably evil way, but the choice is inspired. When they discovered the pilot had been taken the working harmony between Mal and Zoe got blurred, difficult. There was shouting, a long fight before the search and rescue began. Even Jayne was worried, though during the yelling and recriminations portion of the evening, *he'd* claimed he was just invested in keeping a competent pilot at the helm. The fact that Wash isn't single also means the other women see him as safe... a brother-figure or something? Anyway, Kaylee's a mess and Inara's the same, though she hides it better.

They *all* like him. And what's not to like? Simon pushes the thought aside. Just jitters. And Wash is married, remember? Not to mention almost certainly dead. And if not--well his life is complex enough.

That's what he's thinking when the Shepherd puts a hand on his shoulder and Simon almost jumps through the deck. Jitters hell--he's scared shitless. The two of them are picking their way around the edge of the docking bay, against orders, the padre with a tiny flashlight and Simon with nothing but his medkit and shaking hands.

"We've circled twice," Book says, his whisper so soft Simon has to bend close to make out the words. "We'd better go back."

He nods. They've tried, he'll tell River as much. She's babbling anyway: this is dumb. But he takes one last step away from SERENITY, and then another.

Dragon thread... it can't be. Anything but that, please God.

"Simon, it helps nobody if we lose you too."

"Wash?" He means to shout, but it comes out at just above speaking tone. Still horrifyingly loud--the sound of it echoes back from the upper deck. "WASH!"

There--a sort of cough, a low breath. Hint of movement there between two crates. They run to the spot, clanging noisily, stealth forgotten and there he is. Ostensibly unharmed--except for the way he can't straighten his limbs out, a raised red weal near his temple and the lines here and there, subcutaneous bumps like electrical wire in long stitchy streaks on his forearms. A tight coil of iridescent plastic is wound out of Wash's left nostril. Bending tight over his upper lip and flossed between his two front teeth, it takes three painfully tight turns around his tongue before disappearing down his throat.

"Bastards. They put his clothes back on after." He doesn't even realize he's spoken until Wash's head creaks up. Pain-blinded eyes stare at him blankly.

"What is it?" Book asks, his voice equal measures of awe and horror.

"It's called dragon thread. Illegal military hardware--it'll be all through his body," Simon responds, and as he bends to the job he spares a small part of his mind to wondering, anew, what they did to his sister at that rutting academy.How had she known?

***

Cap'n killed the wrong guy. That's what Wash had been thinking, all the long slow way back to the ship, hitching along in baby steps, arms raised fetal against his chest, every large movement pulling the long strand of plastic inside him in frightening, painful ways. Knowing--because *they* said so--that a misstep could kill him.

See, Mal, you shoved the big guy into the engine intake, but the big guy would just have killed me. The third guy in line, the unassuming one...

Being angry at Mal was stupid, but it kept him moving for awhile.

He didn't escape, obviously. *They* wanted him found; they dumped him. On the way back he'd heard Jayne through an interior portal, busting heads and demanding answers. Wash couldn't muster up muscle strength to get to him, though--there were stairs--and the filament was holding his vocal cords open so he couldn't make a sound. In the end he had to keep shuffling towards the ship, half-convinced that if he made it Niska's apprentice psychopath would be waiting there, giggling and ready to put a bullet between his eyes.

Half-convinced, or half-hoping? God, he hurt.

At first when Simon and Book lift him, he doesn't know it's them. He goes still, and it's a please-don't-hurt-me-make-myself-small reaction that some misplaced part of his soul despises. Then he recognizes the Shepherd's deep voice and he's relieved, so relieved. There's a blinding flash of pain behind his eyes and Wash revisits a snatch of the last few hours--"the tear ducts, squeeze shut the tear ducts, yes?"

And now the new guy, Simon, in his ear, "It's okay, Wash, I've seen this before, you're going to be okay."

Lying, probably.

But now he thinks he's inside the ship, just from the smell of the air and there's another flash as he tries to leak relieved tears. Hissing instead from his fucked throat, and warm fingers brush his clawed hand for a second but mercifully do not squeeze.

The light changes, gets familiar. He *is* aboard the ship. Simon's brisk doctorly instructions calm him further. "Under no circumstances does Zoe get in here until I'm done. Not even if she shoots herself in the foot. That goes for everyone. No interruptions. And keep an eye on my sister, will you?"

And then they're closed up in medical and he's back on a table, and Wash has to fight panic for awhile and remind himself that he's as safe this time as the new guy straps him down and starts cutting off his clothes.

***

The first challenge is finding where the thread went in.

Simon keeps up a steady, quiet monologue as he looks over Wash, searching for the entry point. The thread is one long, continuous piece, a high-tech inchworm that someone has painstakingly stitched in and around his organs, never piercing anything fatally, easing it through the body's various entrances and exits. Multicolored plastic stitches in and out of the blond man's orifices, cramps his muscles, hampers his movements. Here and there it broke the skin--sometimes cutting, sometimes burning its way out with a laser--popping up and then diving down somewhere else. And depending on the weapon design...

At least he doesn't have to rack his brain for dragon thread specs. Simon has kept up with this particular variation of human wickedness. You might say it has haunted him.

There. A small trailing thread dangles from the sole of Wash's right foot, slick with blood.

"Can you understand me?" Simon says. "Make some small movement, whatever you like--nod, blink. Whatever doesn't... whatever hurts least."

Wash clicks his tongue against his teeth once and Simon touches the foot.

"They started here, didn't they?"

Click.

"Can you do that twice for no?"

A pause, then a single click. Meaning yes, I can do that?

"Show me."

He does.

"Okay. You're going to be okay, Wash. I have to examine the thread before I start extracting it. Did they tell you anything about it?"

Click. Yes, and a shiver runs through the pained body.

"Try to remember they probably exaggerated. I'll know in a minute if there are any... failsafes against extraction. If there are, I'll disarm them. It's okay. I know how. It can be removed safely, I promise. "

Which is precisely sixty-two percent true. A C grade, where anything less than an A plus means death for Wash.

Clamping down the foot, he pulls the thread taut--gently--and begins examining it. There are rumors of a new dragon that actually explodes if you cut it... but he doesn't see any signs of that. It *is* poisoned under that sheath though. Which means Simon has to get it out in a piece. Everything Niska did to Wash tonight, Simon will have to do in reverse.

***

There's an endless fiddling around stage. Wash feels the pain dim slightly and understands he's been drugged. Not nearly enough and though he hazily knows it wouldn't do, under the circumstances, to have him go all floppy he still feels a burst of resentment. There's a constant tugging at the cord in his foot and then the pressure is steady, like it's been fixed to something. The foot itself goes numb. Local anesthetic? Nerve damage?

Simon never stops murmuring and that's good, he needs it, but he sort of wishes there weren't any words involved. Words beg you to comprehend them and he just wants to curl up and go brainless until this is over. The others talked too, when they weren't giggling. Gigglers. He'd been grabbed by gigglers.

But Simon's not laughing. Distantly, Wash thinks the doctor looks like warmed-over crap. Then he decides Simon is scared, and that does nothing for his own peace of mind. "I have to get it out the way it came," the doctor's saying. Terrific, Wash thinks. "Once we unbind the upper chest organs, I can give you another shot."

He clicks once. Yes, I understand. Wishes he could mouth something--get started already--but his jaw's bound half ajar. Wonders where his wife is and hopes she's safe but far away, kicking ass with Mal. He doesn't want her to see him like this. He doesn't want her to see that he's pissed at her for returning the medicine, pooching the Niska deal. He's got to get that resentment under wraps or...

His mind snags on the word: wraps. Plastic cord twining tightly around his balls. Shit, shit...

"Okay," Simon says, voice kind. "Here we go."

A slight electrical charge fills his body, warm and thoroughly awful, just like before, but the sound of the threadspool--or whatever Simon's rigged up to simulate it--is different, screechier. He focuses on that difference, reminds himself he's safe and doesn't believe it for an instant. There's a second of total blinding agony and then his left foot spasms, and the tautness that has been holding his ankle in an unnaturally stretched position goes away. Simon's hands are there, smoothing the joint and working out the cramps before he lowers it to the table and ties it down.

***

The thing about being a doctor that always amazes Simon is the courage you see in patients. As he stops and starts the retractor he sees Wash bracing for the next electrical jolt, the next painful stage of thread removal--and he sees the man's relief as some new part of his body is released from torment. Wash takes that moment like it's a present. Then he readies himself for the next onslaught of pain.

Simon works his way up the left leg, where the thread's passage ended, and then traces its progress through Wash's left arm. The fingers are the worst--Niska's goon actually broke through the skin to bind them together, and as the thread retreats Wash's fingers spasm, falling open as the white stitch lines on his palm fill with blood. They all but dislocated his shoulder, too, burning with the laser to implant the thread deep in the ball and socket joint. That part's a lot of work, even though he chances a local there--it's an effort to hold Wash still so the thread doesn't break and leak poison into his arm.

Then up the line of his throat. They take a longer break after the thread's out of Wash's larynx and mouth. The sinuses are next and Simon needs to be sharp. He flashes on last time, the dragon's head going out of control, burning through the upper cavities and going rogue, heading for the brain pan. As awful as if it had been real.

"Can I have water?" Wash manages to rasp after a minute or two of working his jaw open and closed.

He shakes his head. "It might dissolve the sheath around the poison."

The blue eyes close. "Saliva... didn't. Blood..."

"It won't be much longer, Wash," he reassures him. The eyes flare--angry--and then there's acceptance. So much courage. If their positions were reversed...

He eases the thread from between the teeth with his fingers, and then when it disappears back up Wash's nostril he doesn't see it again for a long time. The sinus work is surprisingly delicate but the anticipation was worse than the reality. In some ways, it's less tricky than the thoracic is going to be. Wash can scream now, though he tries not to. The sounds he makes are heart-rending.

Simon retreats the thread down the throat one last time, clearing the obstructions Niska threaded around Wash's lungs and heart. Then, finally, he can give the man another pain shot.

The guts are dangerous and tedious at once. There's some tearing near the kidneys, probably incurred during Wash's slow walk back to the ship. Minor stuff, but Simon puts everything on hold, goes in right then and sutures. When he happens to glance at the clock he's surprised to see four hours have passed. Then comes the emotionally difficult part of the journey--the loops around the genitals, the dragon thread emerging from one orifice and diving down into another. He holds everything steady while the extractor does its work, offering up his best clinical narration, which stutters when he notices the mark of teeth on Wash's inner thigh. He glances up at this likable drugged-up near stranger, professionalism briefly broken.

"He likes to feel it sliding up the leg toward..." Pained silence.

"Toward the groin?" He offers.

"Yeah." Wash rasps. "'Mmmm, noodles', he said that."

"Niska said?"

He shakes his head. "The protg. Though mostly he referred to it as an embroidery project. Deranged *and* inconsistent."

Simon puts his free hand on Wash's forehead. "I'll give you another shot in a minute. We're almost done."

"It's okay--" A tremble goes through him as the thread snicks out of his penis, retreating back into his leg past the circle of tooth-shaped bruises.

"No, it's not okay," Simon says, and Wash looks away, blinking as he drapes him, probing for nerve damage--none he can find, the inconsistent *protg* knew his stuff--and settles down to the last leg. The home stretch.

And finally finally he's got it out, the nasty little war crime emerging from the vulnerable sole of Wash's right foot, glistening with blood as it wraps itself tightly onto the improvised spool. Simon snaps off the head where all its navigation sensors and laser tech are, dropping the abomination on the floor and crushing it underfoot. Adrenaline shoots through him and he struggles to control his breathing. He did this removal procedure twice in simulation and failed both times, but nobody needs to know that now. It was an option at school; he hadn't had to pass it and in the end the prospect of doing it again had simply been too upsetting. He'd figured: why see it through? He'd never need to do the procedure in his sort of medical practice.

He'd never quite gotten over those VR screw-ups, though--or the way his two scholarship classmates looked at him ever after like he was a spoiled brat with no grip on reality.

"I'm going to give you a shot," he says to Wash, and he sees a flash of the courage again. Not sure he's doing the right thing he takes the pilot's hand as he administers the dose. Wash squeezes until it knocks him out.

Simon takes a few minutes to change out of his bloody things before going to face the family.

***

"I don't want to see her." Wash says before he even wakes up fully. He's thirsty, trying to sit up. He's still tied down and even though he knows where he is he can't help thrashing.

"It's okay, it's okay." Simon's voice, and then his hands. Strong and warm. Biggish. Not small, not dry, not pinching. And not Zoe either, not worried or angry or crying, things he doesn't have room for yet. He's used up all of what passes for his nerve, at least for awhile.

"Wash," Simon says, "you're all right."

Panting, he tries to nod. "Can I get up?"

The doctor's lips twitch, half smiling. "In stages."

"Get these things off me then."

The straps fall away; he's unbound. Simon helps him sit and then brings him the water he asked for, twelve hours too late. It burns going down his throat.

"Everyone else...?"

"They're sleeping it off. Nobody else was seriously hurt. None of our people, anyway."

*Close off the tear ducts, yes?* And the cord inching its way out of his body, dancing in front of his eyes for a sec before it dives back in and they didn't even want anything--he couldn't offer to tell them what he knew or fight to keep it from them, they were just pissed at Mal... at Zoe... for giving the medicine back.

And when they got tired of his screaming they did that thing to his throat...

The ship shivers slightly. "Jesus," he says, trying to be brave. Nope, it's gone. He sounds like a scared kid. "Who's flying this pig?"

"Don't know." The doctor helps him slide his legs off the couch so he's sitting instead of reclining. Then, surprisingly, he hops up to sit beside him.

"He's fighting the laterals. Must be Jayne."

"We're in space," Simon says. "What's he going to hit?"

Wash relaxes against the warm body at his side, surprised by how much it helps. The doctor's arm comes around his shoulders, gently, not hurting him in the slightest. Brief squeeze and their heads turn and they're face to face for a moment; eye to eye. Simon's breath heats Wash's face and he moves, surprised at himself, and sets one long tentative kiss on the doctor's mouth. Then they separate, and there's a moment--

Simon kisses him back, just as long, just once.

And somehow it's like a pile of bricks have just fallen off his shoulders.

"Do you want to try standing?" the doctor asks, and Wash nods, weirdly calm. Simon hops down from the treatment table and holds out his hands. Wash takes them, braces himself, and slides to the floor. There's a series of painful shocks in all of his joints--ankles, knees, hips--but Simon keeps him balanced.

He just kissed someone who wasn't Zoe. He ought to be freaked out. He is freaked out, but not about that. Though come to think of it, he's less freaked out about last night than he was *before* he kissed his doctor. Maybe the two freaks are canceling each other out, Wash thinks. Maybe he'll have a meltdown later. Anyway, he feels better. And he's not going to die. And the pain is... not gone but going. He's been saved. He's going to be okay, just like the man promised.

They walk around the room once--hands in hands, Simon going backwards, rumpled and sleep-deprived, Wash shuffling and sore. He catches a glimpse of himself in the surgical mirror and sees red lines, like scratches but not, all over his skin. He's been dreading that first look at the damage, but he pauses, gives it a longer look, and then leans in to kiss Simon's forehead.

Definitely a good cure for the freak-outs.

"I think I ought to comm your wife now," says Simon as they finish the turn around the table. "Are you ready?"

"Yes, I'm ready."

"Do you want to sit down again? Wash?"

"I'll do a solo lap while you call." He scratches the words through his sore, sore throat and is amused to find himself regretting the loss of contact as Simon relaxes his grip, firmly placing one hand on the recovery table so Wash can support his weight before stepping back to watch he won't keel over. Finally, eyes searching the pilot's face, Simon moves away to page Wash's dangerous, beautiful bride.

And as the doctor turns his back on Wash at last, the patient--still half-convinced he's gone insane, but suddenly enjoying the ride--avails himself of the opportunity to check out Simon's ass.

### The End ###