An instinct implanted more deeply than any trauma made Mal choke back his scream and jerk himself awake, heart steadying as he absorbed the peaceful reality of his surroundings. He had people looking to him now, people facing as uncertain a future as he could imagine, and they needed someone stable, not a figment as woke up screaming in the night.

He felt physically ill, but slowly the nausea passed enough to allow him to notice that his fingers ached, that he was clutching the blankets with all his strength. Mal released his grip and wipe d the sweat from his face, ran his fingers through damp hair. He inhaled deeply, air free from the stench of death, and listened to the quiet breathing of the others. No cries of pain, no men pleading with their Sergeant for help he couldn’t find. Looking through the dark, he saw a warm space filled with sleeping men, no chains, no all-powerful boogeyman to rip him to shreds.

He didn't stifle the tiny groan as he laid his spinning head back down on the pillow. As his body slowly stopped shaking, Mal pondered on why his mind insisted on inventing shiny new versions of hell. There’d not been nightmares, not once since his trial. Thank the powerful collection of drugs or the unquestioning comfort of friends, but he'd felt an odd sort of safe. Felt it now, too, awake and listening to the rhythmic sound of the deeply asleep, the quiet hum of the heater, the more careful breathing patterns of a few men feigning sleep.

Simms, directly above him. Nice kid, quiet and thoughtful. Not a fighter or a killer, comm. tech of some sort. The next one took more thought to locate. Cole. Built like a tank, used to drive one, with an attitude to match. Wouldn't have pegged him for sleeping problems. Davies, no surprise there. He was crippled in more ways than just the hand, or the scars on his face. His own breathing steadied, and he allowed his eyes to close, comforted by the presence of other troubled men. And that Sergeant, with gentle, tired eyes that told a million