Disclaimer: The characters belong to Joss Whedon. I only play with them because I love them.

It would be better to read this story in one go, but it is rather long so I've split it into parts. Not very well.

THE WEDJAT EYE: PT 1

The nightmare was always the same, every night since that bounty hunter had gotten onto his boat. Just about the worse thing he could imagine playing in his head night after night. Kaylee pinned down and struggling under him, trying to fight him off but not strong enough nor vicious enough to succeed. He had covered her with his powerful muscled body and was forcing himself onto and into her, deaf to her pleas and and blind to her tears. Sweet, trusting Kaylee learning to hate and fear. As her screaming got louder and louder, the pain in Mal's heart became so intense he awoke with a start. He sat bolt upright in bed, feeling sick to his stomach.

Heavy with sleep and disgust, he went over to the sink unit and yanked it out from the wall. He bent down to splash cold water over his face as if he could wash the hideous images from his mind. As he stood back up again, he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. The face that looked back was pale and haunted. The dark circles under his eyes were deeper than ever and there were tight lines around the corners of his mouth. Almost not his face at all. A flash of self-hatred seared through him. What the hell was the matter with him?

Because in his nightmare, it wasn't Jubal Early violating Kaylee. It was him. Mal. The man she had on a pedestal. The man who called her his mei-mei kept having these vile dreams about hurting her. Because in sleep he couldn't escape the truth. If she had been raped it might as well have been him doing it. It would certainly have been his fault. When he took her on as ship's engineer she'd seemed so young and vulnerable he had made himself a vow keep her safe. But when it had mattered, he had failed her. Couldn't even protect her from one man on his own boat.

He gasped in a lungful of air, feeling like he was suffocating under the weight of the responsibility he felt towards her. Under the pressure of trying to be all the things she saw in him. Because it was really only through Kaylee's eyes that he ever saw anything worthwhile in himself. Most of his life was lived on instinct now. Instinct to keep flying, keep his crew safe and fed. Nothing noble in that – just an animal desire to survive. But Kaylee roused feelings in him he had tried to bury. She had become a central point in his life and he needed to keep her just as she was. Sweet and trusting.

Gorammit! Suddenly angry, he kicked over his chair. The crashing sound it made falling to the floor seemed feeble – pathetic even - so he picked it up and hurled it at the wall. This time the crashing was followed by a more satisfying splintering and clattering as the chair broke into pieces and fell to the floor.

'Chi ni de, Kaylee! I ain't your gorram pa. And you ain't a little girl Grow up. The 'verse is a cold, hard place and you better get used to it. Everyone's out for themselves, me included. I ain't the superman you think. Stop drownin' me.'

A mug and a plate followed the chair into the wall. He was on the point of smashing up the light fittings when he saw himself in the mirror again. The feral fury on his face brought him up short. He could see he was losing control and losing control frightened him like nothing else.

*********************************

He found himself up on the bridge, in the pilot's seat, staring out into the Black. Normally its boundless depths, rich with imagined possibilities, would have soothed him. Tonight it was full of nameless dreads. Jubal Early was still out there, surely dead by now, but still out there and floating, as he would for all eternity.

'The Black lied to me', Mal thought. 'It ain't empty and free. It's full of dangers and mistakes and history.'

He scanned the panorama helplessly trying to catch a hint of where the next threat to his crew might come from. But the Black stared back, impassive and unfathomable.

He reached out and touched the flight deck. The controls felt solid and reassuring under his hands. Familiar yet somehow strange. He realized it had been a long time since he'd flown Serenity himself. It had been sensible to entrust the task to a genius pilot like Wash, but he should never have gotten out of practice himself. Couldn't rely on Wash for ever. He'd seen a restlessness growing in Zoe and knew some day her priorities and his wouldn't mesh any more. Then he'd lose not just his pilot and his First Mate, but his best friend too. Better start preparin' for that now. Because the price for relyin' on someone else's strength and competence was losing a little of those qualities in your own self.

Serenity was supposed to have given him freedon. Instead he had somehow managed to gather up a whole passel of dependents and responsibilities. Worse still, he had come to depend on this little band of fragile people. A pilot who still liked to play with toys and a woman daft enough to marry him. A thick-skulled mercenary who still couldn't entirely be trusted and an upright, uptight doctor. A moon-brained genius who could foretell the future if you had brains enough to decipher her riddles. A damn preacher who gave his opinion to you straight and a Companion who could be relied on not to. And a smiling sweet girl who tended and nursed his boat as if it were her child.

Gorramit! He could have lost her. Any of the rest of the crew he could manage without if he had to. But not Kaylee. Not if he wanted to keep Serenity flying. He'd only been able to save himself and his boat that one time because she had taught him exactly what was needed. It was a weakness, knowing so little about Serenity's workings. A weakness that had to be fixed. Because, he reasoned, when it comes down to it, you're all you have.

So lost was he in thought, that he didn't hear the preacher approach. First he knew he was there was when a warm hand settled on his shoulder. He started momentarily but then recognized the concerned voice asking him “You all right, son?” Another weakness. When did he stop being constantly on guard? When did he start interpreting the sound of footsteps as the approach of a friend rather than an enemy? That kind of complacency could get a man killed.

He stood up, looming over the older man and opted to conceal his disquiet with anger. “What the hell you doin', preacher? Creepin' about like that? I could've shot you. Still might if you can't explain what you're doing up here on the bridge when all decent folk are in their bunks.” He crossed his arms over his chest and took a step closer to Book, invading his personal space.

Book stood his ground, never taking his eyes from the Captain's. “I often come up here when I can't sleep. To feel closer to God. Is that why you're here?” Mal looked uncomfortable. “Even decent folk are restless sometimes. Something is troubling you, Captain. Want to talk about it?”

Tilting his head on one side, Mal regarded the Shepherd for a moment. Talk about what? My nasty dreams? Don't think you want to hear about them, preacher. And I sure as hell don't want to discuss them.

“Nothing to talk about, Shepherd,” he said flatly, his face a mask. The way Book looked at him he knew the preacher knew otherwise but was not going to force the issue. He was grateful for that.

***********************

Jayne was tending to Vera. Polishing her lovingly, checking her workings. But she wasn't getting his undivided attention. Part of him was focused on River. Girl was deadly with guns and pretty dangerous with a blade. Wouldn't be wise to forget it, even if she had earned a place on the crew. Shepherd was busy at the cooking range but he wa'n't likely to be able to stop her if she felt like goin' on a killin' spree.

River was sitting very still across the mess table from Jayne. Her eyes had a glazed, far-away expression that in anyone else might have indicated daydreaming. Jayne suspected she had tuned into whatever power it was that allowed her to know things no normal person would have.

“Jigsaw,” she said quietly, turning her wide eyes on him.

“No,” he said slowly. “Gun.” He lifted Vera up and waved her around a little. “Big, nasty gun. Kills people.”

“Cut up,” River replied.

“No,” Jayne said again, a mite impatiently. “Guns shoot. Knives cut. As I'm pretty sure you know. What with you havin' tried to slice me up an' all.”

“Broken.” Her tone was becoming a little frantic.

Jayne stood up. Best get away from her if she was going to go all crazy. “Nothin' broken,” he told her, patting Vera affectionately. “I just checked her.”

“Pieces missing,” she whispered sadly.

“No,” Jayne began as he made his way out of the mess. Then he shrugged. What was the point? Moon-brain wa'n't goin' understand. He knew Vera was in full working order, and that was good enough for him.

Book left his cooking and sat down next to River. “Hush, now,” he said soothingly. “Everything will be all right. Nothing's broken.”

She gave him a look of utter contempt. “Everything's broken.” She was suddenly completely lucid.”Nothing will ever be all right. Life is a vale of tears. Says so in your symbol.” Then her eyes took on their far away look again. “Better to let the pieces stay lost.”