TITLE: Red

DISCLAIMER: Nuthin', ya hear?

A/N: Twas floating around and I just managed to catch a little of it, not sure what this is meant to be.

She sees and Sees. She hears and Hears. And sometimes, between seeing and hearing and Seeing and Hearing, reality gets little lost on the wayside. This makes it difficult – how can one communicate to so many different realities at once? She knows that she must categorize and define in order to understand. And maybe once she understands, if she thinks hard enough, if she can keep the voices quiet enough, she can comprehend.

She sees in colours. Colours set out before her seem to define feelings, ideas, concepts. She can recognise that she is Seeing them, that others do not experience this aspect of reality. So she begins to categorize, begins to attempt to understand.

Colours are not bound solely to one individual, but her twisted mind is capable of recognising the connection between a colour and a personality.

The Captain was scorched orange, ongoing pain and hostility floating around him like a sunburnt cloud. But the orange can become lighter, brighter, when he laughs with Kaylee, or plays cards with Jayne. When he talks to Inara it becomes darker, more violent, and is tinged with red around the edges. She feels the confusion and desire of every syllable.

Kaylee is always the golden yellow of sunshine, but her yellow can become a sickly pus colour when she is upset. It looks like she takes on the heart wounds of others on the ship, and they infect the bubbly yellow. But she always returns, the wound always heals, she always becomes bright yellow once more.

Simon is as Simon has always been. Cool blue, steel and harsh hospital lights, gently mixed with warm purples of caring and electric colbalts of fear. He loves her, he loves her not. His base colour always remains blue.

Inara is cool jade, calm and serene, but her interactions with Mal can turn her darker or lighter. Angry, uncontrolled lime or warm, sensual forest green. She changes for him, and him alone.

Zoe is chocolate brown, shot through with flashes of pain. Pain is white, blinding hot and slicing through her to singe the very core of her being. River wonders if the tears she cries, all alone in their bunk, hands clutching prehistoric monsters, are white and blinding too. It's too soon, the warrior woman has yet to notice the rose hued beats of life that emanate from her stomach. She will find her pilot again, the calm brown will return, tinged golden with motherhood.

Jayne is red. Bubbling, simmering anger and molten lava twist under the surface at all times. She finds it beautiful, it draws her in. So desperate was she to see how red he could be that she slashed him across the chest. But lately his red has changed.

Brightly venomous ruby and darker blood tones have occasionally been replaced with crimson, warm and inviting. When his red changes colour from simmering anger to sensual desire his brows furrow, and he looks at her with angry, confused eyes. She loves this colour, longs to See it, to Hear the angry clashing in his skull turn to the odd chiming that makes him so confused and anxious.

She tiptoes towards him, her own feet pale gold and bloody garnet with the effort of silence. She sees him raise his head from his position by the stove, sees that mix of bright ruby mellow to warm crimson shot through with a blood so dark it is almost black.

She walks towards him, knowing his trackers nose would have found her long before she could surprise him. She is less than a foot in front of him, just enough space to reach out her pale hand and lay it on his bare chest. His heart is beating, trying to get nourishment to all his limbs, to his fogged mind. She smiles as he refuses to flinch away from her touch, appreciating the unconscious display of bravery. She breathes deeply, smelling cooking and sweat and Smelling tension and desire. Fear.

She looks up into his eyes, eyes that shouldn't look so blue when so much dark red is swirling through them. She stands on her very tiptoes, and leans forward, his arms unintentionally reaching out to balance her. She places her lips on his own, briefly, and tastes blood.

She steps backs, enjoying the effect that has been created, the solidness of warm crimson and pumping bloody desire. She nods once.

"He always looks better in red."

She turns to leave, knowing that a large hand will tightly grip her arm, and pull her to his massive body.

"Red yer favourite colour, girl?"

She nods once, enjoying the wolfish smirk and flashing eyes that rip up and down her body.

"When he wears it."

Later, as she lays her head on his chest, hearing his heart beat even out as he falls asleep with one thick arm wrapped around her, she smiles to herself.

She always thought she looked better in red too.

A/N: No idea where this sprouted up from, no idea what it is really. Enjoyed writing it though :) Please review