lost and found
Zoe swears that Wash bruises if someone so much as looks at him funny. He has that kind of complexion, the kind she coveted when she was too young to have grown into her own skin: the kind suited to blond hair and blue eyes, that blanches and blushes, that does not tan but burns. It shows every mark and mar of his clumsy days-a scrape from working on the forward console hatch with Kaylee, a gash from an overeager landing, assorted cuts and bruises that he can’t even recall acquiring.
(“Oww, “ he whines whenever Zoe is required to bandage some hard-to-reach spot. “Ow, oooh, ya-careful! …And again-this time with feeling-ow!" Then, just when she’s starting to feel a mite bit guilty, he’ll give her a sly sideways glance: “Guess you’ll have to kiss me to make it all better.” Clumsy and a terrible patient. Zoe’s not sure how he survived this long.)
“Feeling any better?” Zoe asks quietly, moving as slowly as possibly to lie down next to him. He looks-well, worse than Mal even, for all Mal was trapped with Niska longer.
Niska’s equipment left ragged red scars around Wash’s wrists and nasty electrical burns across his chest. The skin around his right eye has filled with blood, soft and tender like a half-rotten fruit. He'd walked (run, fought) all day on a twisted knee and there’s something not right about his left shoulder, though Simon won’t be able to diagnose it until the swelling goes down. He shifts gingerly on their bunk-sharp intake of breath, slow hiss as he tries to exhale without actually moving his ribs.
“Fine,” Wash manages, wincing.
He keeps saying that, and it worries her more than anything else. Her husband is a man of extremes, of exaggeration, operatic in his likes and dislikes. He is never simply fine.
“Really?”
He stares up at the ceiling. “Would I lie to you?” he says, flat and cold. It’s not really a question.
Zoe is surprised to feel her breath catch in her throat. She wasn’t-she can’t… something about that tone, today of all days. For a horrible moment, she thinks she might cry. She starts to get up-can’t stay here, won’t. Before she can get far, his hand flies out to grab hers.
When Wash rolls over rolls onto his good shoulder to face her, the raw skin makes his eyes look too intensely blue. “Why did you pick me?” he asks, “Why me, and not Mal?”
Zoe has to take a moment to organize her thoughts. She wishes she could say it was all part of a grand plan, that she realized an attack on Niska’s isolated skyplex would make better use of a good pilot than a capable captain. She wishes it were even as strategic as realizing that Mal-taller, stronger, more gorram stubborn-would be able to withstand more. She wishes she had any explanation at all, but in fact, she never thought about it, not for a moment. She knew, before Niska even offered her the choice, that if she could only have one, it would be Wash.
“Niska wanted Mal,” she murmurs finally, “he’d never have let go. “ She cups her husband’s chin in her hand, covering the split in his lip with her thumb, hoping that her touch can relay what she can’t find the words for: Niska wanted Mal, and I wanted you. Only ever you, and more than anything.
“Not today,” Wash corrects. “Before...ever. Why pick me when you could’ve had Mal?”
Zoe smooths his hair back from his forehead. Blond hair, to go with blue eyes and pale skin-she thinks a child with Wash’s coloring would be gorgeous. Her fair-haired boy. “Remember our first date?”
Wash snorts, winces. “Ow. Yeah. That restaurant near the docks, when we were in for repairs. Some date: food was terrible and we got lost on the way back to the berth,” he recalls bitterly.
“Remember how you asked that woman for directions and she made us come in and drink tea in her caravan until her son came over to show us the way?”
“Mrs. Nayong. And her son…my God, you know, I think she showed us every picture of that kid as was ever committed to graphic medium. Felt like I’d known the man for years before he finally walked through the gorram door,” Wash smiles, remembering Zoe that night, perched awkwardly in the miniature kitchen, surrounded by doilies and cats. Then his expression darkens. He rolls onto his back, away from her. “Mal wouldn’t have gotten lost.”
Suddenly impatient, Zoe tugs him back to face her, ignoring his pained yelp. “Mal wouldn’t leave the ship, remember?” she whispers fiercely, “He was worried about brigands. Preferred sittin’ in the galley on his lonesome eating cold protein and waiting for the repairs. If’n he had left, he certainly wouldn’tve asked for directions, or sat talking in that woman’s kitchen and looked at her pictures, or remembered her name five years later." She takes a deep breath and forces herself to release her grip on Wash’s shirt. “Mal’s not the type to ask for directions. Hardly matters why-he just don't have it in him. But I’m not the type to marry a man can’t find his way back to me. So you’d best stop sulking and decide if that’s like to be a problem.”
Wash is silent a long time. “I would’ve, you know. I always will,” he says, finally.
“Would’ve what?”
“Found my way back. Mal and me-we had a plan.”
Zoe raises an amused eyebrow. “Did you, now? Well, I hope you two didn’t mind me butting in. If I’d known you had a plan….”
“Oh, no! No, no. Anytime I get kidnapped by a psychotic sadist and hidden away on a sky-fortress, you just feel free to make suggestions…constructive criticism, sneaky rescue missions, feedback-always welcome. I’m a team player.”
Zoe is careful to avoid his torn lip when she kisses him. “Sure you are, hon.”
“’Course, it helps that I have a good team,” Wash concedes.
“That it does, husband.”
(“Oww, “ he whines whenever Zoe is required to bandage some hard-to-reach spot. “Ow, oooh, ya-careful! …And again-this time with feeling-ow!" Then, just when she’s starting to feel a mite bit guilty, he’ll give her a sly sideways glance: “Guess you’ll have to kiss me to make it all better.” Clumsy and a terrible patient. Zoe’s not sure how he survived this long.)
“Feeling any better?” Zoe asks quietly, moving as slowly as possibly to lie down next to him. He looks-well, worse than Mal even, for all Mal was trapped with Niska longer.
Niska’s equipment left ragged red scars around Wash’s wrists and nasty electrical burns across his chest. The skin around his right eye has filled with blood, soft and tender like a half-rotten fruit. He'd walked (run, fought) all day on a twisted knee and there’s something not right about his left shoulder, though Simon won’t be able to diagnose it until the swelling goes down. He shifts gingerly on their bunk-sharp intake of breath, slow hiss as he tries to exhale without actually moving his ribs.
“Fine,” Wash manages, wincing.
He keeps saying that, and it worries her more than anything else. Her husband is a man of extremes, of exaggeration, operatic in his likes and dislikes. He is never simply fine.
“Really?”
He stares up at the ceiling. “Would I lie to you?” he says, flat and cold. It’s not really a question.
Zoe is surprised to feel her breath catch in her throat. She wasn’t-she can’t… something about that tone, today of all days. For a horrible moment, she thinks she might cry. She starts to get up-can’t stay here, won’t. Before she can get far, his hand flies out to grab hers.
When Wash rolls over rolls onto his good shoulder to face her, the raw skin makes his eyes look too intensely blue. “Why did you pick me?” he asks, “Why me, and not Mal?”
Zoe has to take a moment to organize her thoughts. She wishes she could say it was all part of a grand plan, that she realized an attack on Niska’s isolated skyplex would make better use of a good pilot than a capable captain. She wishes it were even as strategic as realizing that Mal-taller, stronger, more gorram stubborn-would be able to withstand more. She wishes she had any explanation at all, but in fact, she never thought about it, not for a moment. She knew, before Niska even offered her the choice, that if she could only have one, it would be Wash.
“Niska wanted Mal,” she murmurs finally, “he’d never have let go. “ She cups her husband’s chin in her hand, covering the split in his lip with her thumb, hoping that her touch can relay what she can’t find the words for: Niska wanted Mal, and I wanted you. Only ever you, and more than anything.
“Not today,” Wash corrects. “Before...ever. Why pick me when you could’ve had Mal?”
Zoe smooths his hair back from his forehead. Blond hair, to go with blue eyes and pale skin-she thinks a child with Wash’s coloring would be gorgeous. Her fair-haired boy. “Remember our first date?”
Wash snorts, winces. “Ow. Yeah. That restaurant near the docks, when we were in for repairs. Some date: food was terrible and we got lost on the way back to the berth,” he recalls bitterly.
“Remember how you asked that woman for directions and she made us come in and drink tea in her caravan until her son came over to show us the way?”
“Mrs. Nayong. And her son…my God, you know, I think she showed us every picture of that kid as was ever committed to graphic medium. Felt like I’d known the man for years before he finally walked through the gorram door,” Wash smiles, remembering Zoe that night, perched awkwardly in the miniature kitchen, surrounded by doilies and cats. Then his expression darkens. He rolls onto his back, away from her. “Mal wouldn’t have gotten lost.”
Suddenly impatient, Zoe tugs him back to face her, ignoring his pained yelp. “Mal wouldn’t leave the ship, remember?” she whispers fiercely, “He was worried about brigands. Preferred sittin’ in the galley on his lonesome eating cold protein and waiting for the repairs. If’n he had left, he certainly wouldn’tve asked for directions, or sat talking in that woman’s kitchen and looked at her pictures, or remembered her name five years later." She takes a deep breath and forces herself to release her grip on Wash’s shirt. “Mal’s not the type to ask for directions. Hardly matters why-he just don't have it in him. But I’m not the type to marry a man can’t find his way back to me. So you’d best stop sulking and decide if that’s like to be a problem.”
Wash is silent a long time. “I would’ve, you know. I always will,” he says, finally.
“Would’ve what?”
“Found my way back. Mal and me-we had a plan.”
Zoe raises an amused eyebrow. “Did you, now? Well, I hope you two didn’t mind me butting in. If I’d known you had a plan….”
“Oh, no! No, no. Anytime I get kidnapped by a psychotic sadist and hidden away on a sky-fortress, you just feel free to make suggestions…constructive criticism, sneaky rescue missions, feedback-always welcome. I’m a team player.”
Zoe is careful to avoid his torn lip when she kisses him. “Sure you are, hon.”
“’Course, it helps that I have a good team,” Wash concedes.
“That it does, husband.”