Piotr Nikolaievitch Rasputin

"I'll help."

Barely audible. She pulls herself a fraction straighter, though she's shaking with wrenching sobs.

Slightly stronger, "I'll help."

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With the corner of his sleeve, he wipes some of the tears from River's face. And he doesn't let go.

Piotr takes a shaky breath before he wipes at his own face with one hand.

"Thank you."

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River shakes her head, and keeps shaking it.

"Fight," she whispers. "We gotta."

"Curl up and close it down the slide. All the way. Bring the salt." Her hands jerk in restless agitation, the gestures unclear, and she stares blindly through her tears. Pink ballet slippers bounce against her arm and Piotr's ribs. "Got no time, it's in the sand, no time." She flinches at nothing. "Piotr. They send the needles and we all drown underneath."

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"Oh, little one."

This one is even harder, because it's right there in front of him.

He tries to hold one of her hands, but it isn't easy. "You are. I can see so much of baby sister in you. No wonder Kitty loves you so."

He squares his jaw and asks, "Let me help you, little one."

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High with tears and frustration, "I'm shiny."

No she's not.

"Not relevant."

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That almost gets a startled laugh. Just, that. Right there.

That gets River swung up into his arms and swept up the stairs.

"I think...it is time for tea. And your brother. You can be cross at me later."

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She's leaning against his broad arm, and then she's off her feet and being carried up the stairs, and that -- just for a second -- earns Piotr a glance of wide-eyed startlement.

Then her eyes squeeze shut, and the misery is back.

"The equations are fallacious."

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"Ah, little one," he says as he heads down the corridor toward the small kitchen.

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The kitchen is nearly empty right now; dinner's been over for a while. But it's Simon's turn to wash the dishes, so he's still there.

He glances up at the sound of footfalls.

The plate he's holding clatters into the little sink, and he's around the counter and halfway across the floor before it stops rattling.

"River --?"

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River shakes her head instantly, one hand reaching towards her brother, focusing on him through tears.

"No. Misassigning the empirical symptoms."

"I'm fine," she says, and her voice trembles and shudders upward again, "Simon, there are too many walls and they're not mine--"

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Piotr swings River down to her feet, very carefully, and keeps a hand up in case he needs to catch her. And a grip on Kitty's ballet slippers.

"She...caught...something before I meant her to. And we." He stops and waves vaguely. Not so comfort with saying 'had a cry'.

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For a vague blurred moment, Simon's brain tries to interpret caught something as meaning that River's gotten sick, and then discards that as clearly not the case.

"River, shh, come here." He wraps an arm around her. "What is it?"

It's directed to her, but could be answered by either of them.

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A pair of pink ballet slippers -- Kitty's -- dangles from River's hand. There's a folded piece of paper in one toe.

"Con the lay," she half-whispers, raw. "Cut through the locks. We can find the sky, Simon, please."

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He takes a breath. Then, "Kitty was arrested. Charged as a traitor and a terrorist. They have her in the supermax prison in Colorado for the moment."

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Over River's shoulder, Simon's face goes very, very still.

Instead of the first question to come to mind -- do we know what the security's like? -- he asks: "Is there a plan yet?"

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The corner of Piotr's mouth quirks up, and he almost smiles.

"I. I need to talk to her first." Wry, "She might be trying to make a point."

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"Hundred points," River whispers to the floor. Her arms have wrapped around her torso, and her fingers twist tight against brown fabric.

"Every one makes you bleed."

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"Make a point," Simon repeats, a little thinly.

"I have to say, Kitty never struck me as the sort to embrace passive resistance."

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The slight bit of expression goes away.

"She might be trying to prove not all mutants will always break the laws that don't suit them. She always wanted to be a politician. I need to be sure."

"And figure out how to get her out that won't cause this Civil War to be even worse for all of us. It is not just," (me) , "us this effects."

Oh, that hurt to say. It shows.

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River's eyes are closed.

Tears leak slowly down her cheeks; she's been crying long enough to be breathing through her mouth now.

"Can," she whispers, but it's hard to say whom she's addressing.

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Simon breathes out, hard.

(He's still holding River, and almost absently rubbing her back in a gentle circle.)

"Is there a way to get her out legally?" he asks Piotr. "What rights does she have? Will there be a hearing?"

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"...I don't know." He pauses, then, "She might not even be a considered a citizen right now."

He rubs at his eyes, takes a breath then two more, and starts going through his duffel again.

"I have to go back." A bundle of letters is dropped on the kitchen table. "Notes for your crew. She wrote them in case this happenned. Give them out, please? She wanted me to."

"You know what's happened. I will be back as soon as I can with whatever I can find." Decided, he starts for the door back to the cargo bay.

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River flinches at the first sentence, and again at the thump of the letters.

She doesn't say a word.

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Simon opens his mouth to call Piotr back. And then closes it again, thin and hard.

If Kitty's not considered a citizen anymore ... then she owes that government nothing. Nothing.

They'll wait to see what Piotr finds out. Wait to see what the situation really is. And then ... well, what happens then depends on what he brings back. There's no point in making plans ahead of your information. They'll wait.

And they'll see.

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River stares at the empty doorway.

"Zhùyì," she says, very low, and for a moment she's motionless and intent. Poised, as if she might pull free of Simon's arm and follow Piotr in a swift focused run.

(My turn)

And then her face crumples again, and the impression is gone.

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Simon's looking at the letters.

He can't make himself believe there's going to be a secret code hidden in any of them.

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There's one with his name on it. One for Jayne, and one for Mal, and more.

Not one for River. That is, presumably, the piece of paper tucked into one ballet shoe.

River doesn't look at any of them. Her eyes are closed, and her face tipped upwards; tears slide down her already blotchy face, dripping onto her shirt and coat, and her breath heaves.

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