Fic: Sticking Point (5/9)
Rating: PG13
Characters: Mal, Wash, Zoe, Bester, Kaylee.
Word count: ~4200
Summary: Set early pre-series. Serenity is stuck on the ground with major engine trouble. No one's exactly tickled about that fact, some lots less than others. In fact, some find it outright crazy-making.
~Day 5~
The next morning, to Mal's surprise, especially after the man's evening out, he found Bester awake and in the galley before any of the rest of them, fiddling with the coffee percolator. Mal noticed he was putting the filter in upside down, and took over before he could ruin the entire pot. He seemed to have something on his mind, given the way he was chewing on his lip and running his hand through his hair. Hoping he wasn't opening himself up to a woeful tale of sexual misfortune - 'cuz given how tense Bester was, he clearly hadn't gotten lucky the night before - Mal asked, “What's up?”
“Washburne,” he blurted, eyes wide and a little weird. “Y' gotta keep him outta the engine room.”
“Do I?”
“Mal. Captain. Please. Two days. Two solid days he's been in there with me, pokin' around, askin' questions, messin' with my tools. He's a freakin' flyboy, knows squat about engines, but thinks he can tell me what's what. Goin' on and on about this glitch he had here and that crash he had there. Ni tama de!” His fists bunched. “I'll take a spanner to his skull if I have to hear another word, swear t' God!”
Mal allowed himself one long slow blink over that last statement, giving himself time to think it all through. Truth be told, Bester had lost his geniusy luster in the last couple months. Besides being an uncomfortable crewmate of the sexually over-sharing story-telling kind, Mal was positive Serenity could be flying faster, farther, freer than she was. Wasn't exactly rational, this impression. But he had it anyway. (Wash, he felt certain, was the exact right pilot. To the point he was willing to ignore Zoe's reservations. And that was a pretty major ignoring. He couldn't remember any other significant personnel decision they'd differed on.)
Threats toward fellow crew, though, this was new from Bester, never the excitable type. Kinda hard to get him fired-up about much of anything, actually, especially work. Looked like Wash had discovered how to get him riled. Too bad it was goading him into fantasies of violence instead of into increased productivity.
Motion at the hatch pulled Mal's gaze there, as, yawning hugely, Wash stepped down into the the galley. Still in yesterday's flightsuit, the hair on the back of his head standing up in a wild tuft, clearly he'd spent the whole night in his chair. While not the first time he'd done so, they'd always been on the move before, and he'd been wanting to be close to the helm as Serenity flew through some hazard. Was no reason - no sensible reason - why he'd be sleeping in that chair while they were dirtside.
Bester saw him too, and, with a pleading look, whispered hoarsely, “Mal! Please!”
Lips tight, Mal gave him a single, affirmative nod, then said coolly, “Get yourself fed. Then get busy.” Then he leaned in, lowering his voice. “And don't ever think about raising a hand to any of my crew.”
Eyes widening, Bester took a step back, then with a jerky nod, averted his gaze. Head down, he reached for a bowl to serve himself some porridge from the slow-cooker Zoe'd started the night before. Meanwhile, Wash entered the kitchen, murmuring a groggy, “Good morning” before clattering around in a cupboard for a mug. Then, rolling it between his palms, he stood by the stove, rocking slightly, waiting for the percolator's last burble.
Bester slouched to the table, and Mal got himself some of the protein porridge, which smelled pretty gorram good that morning. Zoe'd gotten a hold of some raisins and cinnamon somewhere. Then he swapped places with Wash to get at the coffee, while Wash got a scoop of protein.
Mal wondered if he had a real morale problem coming to a head. Even given it was the first thing in the morning, both his crew were unusually quiet. And Bester, generally given to a leisurely tempo during meals, scarfed down his protein at a pace which suggested he was eager to dive back into the problem of Serenity's stricken engine. Mal suspected otherwise, suspected it was Wash perched on the edge of his seat across the table from him as he ate his own breakfast, watching him intently through pink-rimmed eyes that drove Bester on.
Zoe walked in in the middle of this, one brow going up as she got a sense of the peculiar mood. But she collected her coffee and porridge without comment, seating herself as usual at Mal's left hand.
“Mornin',” he greeted her.
“Mornin',” she replied, studying first Bester, seated one chair down from her, then Wash, just across the table.
Bester kept his head down, mouth too busy with his breakfast to say a word. Truly strange was that Wash simply nodded in her direction, before turning his gaze back on the mechanic. Usually he responded to any of her general greetings cheerfully, with an unshakably sunny smile. Now he ate on in stolid silence. Zoe began eating as well, eyes on her food. But Mal could tell most of her attention focused on Wash, and he watched as the set of her brows took on a slightly miffed angle. He couldn't fathom that, as Wash saying just about anything annoyed her, and he figured she'd like him better quiet. He took a bite of his own protein, enjoying the sweetness of the raisins, plump and juicy after hours in the slow-cooker. Was then he recollected about a month and a half ago, when Zoe'd last added them and cinnamon to the morning protein, the fuss Wash had made, saying they were his favorite additions to porridge. He found himself turning over two oddities in his mind; first, that Wash had yet to utter a word of compliment, and second, that Zoe seemed to notice that, and even odder, that it seemed to irk her that he hadn't.
His concerns about crew morale deepened.
Bester suddenly rose, and bolted for the kitchen, dumping his dishes in the sink before scurrying aft. Shoveling the last bites of protein into his mouth, Wash stood with his empty bowl, still chewing, to follow Bester. Mal caught him with a hand on his forearm.
“Got some errands for ya, Wash.”
“Um. Yeah,” Wash said slowly, pulling his eyes from Bester's retreating back and focusing them on Mal with some difficulty. Then Mal's words sank in, and he swallowed his mouthful before going on with growing interest, “Okay. That's good. Errands. What first?”
“First, we should fill up on water. Want you t' go over to the spaceport, they got a tanker there. Want you to see if you can get them to come on out here t' top us off, for a fee that won't empty our purse.”
Wash nodded, looking cheerful about doing something to make their ship flight-ready.
“Second thing. Talked to Song Dou yesterday, the fella whose fallow bean field we're occupyin'. He's willin', in lieu of cashy money, to accept our very valuable, fertilizer-quality sludge as payment for our rent. So, when you're down at the spaceport seein' about the water, look into borrowin' their honey wagon. Need you to supervise us gettin' pumped clean, an' the sludge to Song.”
Wash nodded again, more dutiful than cheerful this time.
Mal grinned as he promised him, “Y' get first dibs on the shower once ya got all that done. You can make it a long one.”
“Long, hot shower, yesss,” Wash chortled gleefully, lifting his eyes in hallelujah. While Wyoming had plenty of water, out here away from easy access to the spaceport services, they'd all been restricted to bathing as though they were still in the Black. Which meant sponge baths or cleansing gel with a quick splash in the shower on a rotating schedule, once every four days. And while Mal was of course pleased by the prospect that he, as well as everyone else on board Serenity, would all have shower access in the next twenty-four hours, he was more gratified by the normal, for Wash, jubilant response to the shower issue.
“I'll get your dishes,” he said, taking Wash's bowl and mug.
“Shiny,” Wash replied with a grin, then headed for the cargo bay.
“Wash.” The man turned at Mal's call. “Comb your hair b'fore you go.”
Smiling sheepishly, he nodded as he ran a palm over his head, attempting to tame his wayward tufts. “Might take more 'n a comb, Captain. But I'll get right on it.” His eyes slid to Zoe, then he turned away, cheeks going pink, both hands now vigorously smoothing his hair as he went.
Mal grinned, pleased to see Wash acting more or less like his usual self. He looked to Zoe, and she gave her head a little shake, rolling her eyes. And it was good to see her acting normal-like too.
A short time after Wash took off, the delivery of protein showed up in a horse-drawn wagon. Zoe and Mal helped the driver unload it, then set about stashing it away, some of it in the galley, but the bulk of it in the bay. A half an hour after that, shifting cases of protein around so that they provided maximum coverage for less innocuous cargo, Mal heard the sound of a large truck's engine approaching Serenity. He ceased his sorting to go to the open forward bay hatch, stopping at the top of the ramp. He watched as the tanker he'd noted at the spaceport slowly jounced its way through farmer Song's field. He spotted his pilot through its windshield, sitting in the passenger seat. He caught sight of Mal and waved. Mal lifted his hand in return, then got back to his chore. Some twenty minutes after that, he went to watch the truck drive away, Wash again in the passenger seat.
Was nearly two hours before the sludge collector showed up. Had it been Bester assigned the chore, Mal would have suspected malingering. But that wasn't Wash's way, so he figured maybe he was needing some time to track down the operator of said honey wagon. He didn't hear it coming, as he was back in the passenger dorms, giving those bunks a good dusting, then unrolling, airing out, and re-rolling in the opposite direction all the sleeping mats on the beds. As much as he disliked taking on passengers and having strangers nosing about in his business, he figured he might have to take on a few in the near future, to plump up their peckish purse. Especially as arriving on Paquin in a timely manner was looking more and more problematic. Was Zoe, doing an inventory in the cargo bay, who spotted it, hitting the comm to inform him, “Sludge truck's here.”
He came forward, joining Zoe at the top of ramp to watch the truck wallow through the loose soil of the field, following the water tanker's tracks. Again, Wash waved from the passenger seat, and this time, Mal recognized the driver. The redheaded woman he'd seen in the bar the first day they'd gone into town. She too raised a hand in greeting, sunlight flashing off the steel of her prosthesis. Then she steered the truck out of their sight, to Serenity's port side, where the waste-dump access valve was situated. Both Mal and Zoe walked down the ramp and around the side.
The woman had already stopped the truck and opened her door, swinging down onto the ground with a rich, wholehearted laugh which definitely stirred Mal's masculine interest. He heard Wash's voice as he spoke through the cab, though he couldn't make out what he was saying. But whatever it was got another one of those all-in laughs from the driver. Then she spotted Mal and Zoe, and still grinning, pushed the door closed. An echoing slam let Mal know Wash was out of the truck too.
She strode toward them, extended her left hand, the flesh one, to Mal, saying, “You must be Captain Reynolds. Lara Sullivan.” He took her hand as they exchanged a look of acknowledgment, one that those on the losing side often shared upon meeting. Her grip was strong, and he speculated that her body, its generous curves apparent even under her baggy coveralls, was equally so.
“Lara Sullivan, my XO, Zoe Alleyne.” The women exchanged handshakes and nods. Then Wash, grinning, stepped around the back of the truck, unzipping his flightsuit halfway, shucking it off his shoulders to tie the arms around his waist.
“Sorry I took so long, Captain. Had to hike a few klicks to Lara's place to discuss truck borrowing.”
“My fault,” the woman interjected. “Won't have the Cortex in my home. Plus, I made him sit and snap a kilo of green beans before I agreed to lend my wagon.”
“Never had fresh, raw green beans before,” Wash said, giving Lara a wide, crinkle-eyed smile. “Tasty.”
Clearly, the two of them were getting on like a house on fire, and Mal had to wonder what other chores Sullivan had required of him. None of his business, really, and Wash's ability to charm spaceport vendors had stood Mal and his purse in good stead over the last few months. Then Wash went on, his gaze flicking between the three of them, “So we'll get to it then, yeah?”
While not quite getting his pilot's diffidence, Mal did appreciate his focus on the task at hand. With a sharp nod, he said, “Carry on.” Sullivan about-faced immediately, striding toward the side of the truck, while Wash nodded in return first before ducking beneath Serenity's belly.
“Want me to help, Captain?” Zoe asked, tilting her chin toward the access valve, where Wash was keying in the unlock code at the same time as he was chuckling at whatever Sullivan was saying as she loosed the tie-downs from the wagon's uptake hose.
“No, I sure as hell don't,” he stated. “The longer he's workin' out here, the longer I don't gotta worry about him an' Bester an' unauthorized spanner-usage.”
She peered at him quizzically, then shrugged, pivoting sharply to head back to whatever tasks she'd set herself in the bay.
Removing sludge took longer than adding water, so it was a good hour before Mal heard the truck's engine turning over. He trotted quickly to the cargo bay ramp, to watch as Sullivan carefully turned her heavy wagon around in the field's loose soil. Headed toward town, she leaned way out the side window, looking back as she waved good-bye. Wash, standing at the foot of the ramp, returned her wave. Mal, upon reaching the bottom to stand beside him, lifted his own hand. After a couple inhales, Mal took one large sideways step away from his pilot. The man shot him a mock injured look.
“Harsh, very harsh,” he murmured.
“Think I promised you a long hot shower, Wash. Why don't you go take advantage? Take as long as you like, in fact.”
“Your wish, Captain, is my command.” And with a jaunty salute, Wash took his sweaty, whiffy self inside, heading toward his bunk for his toiletries, intoning, “Unclean, unclean,” as he trotted up the catwalk steps.
And despite Wash's cheerful demeanor, despite his long, indulgent wallow under a hot spray, and his tuneful humming as he returned to his bunk in his bath robe, damp and sweet and clean, for a fresh flightsuit, Mal stood waiting for him by the hatch in the galley. The one that led aft, to the engine room, where Bester labored, looked in on frequently by both Zoe and himself.
Sure enough, Wash soon emerged from the forward corridor, hair even wilder than it had been this morning, standing upright in towel-dried spikes, bee-lining across the galley toward the engine room. He seemed a bit startled when Mal stepped in front of him, blocking the way aft.
“Wash, don't you got dinner duty?”
“Yeah, Cap'n,” he replied, smiling agreeably. “But that's not for another three hours. And it's just protein loaf.” He stepped sideways, to move around Mal. Mal countered him, and Wash stopped short again, frowning a bit.
“Now, see, that there could be the root of your protein loaf problem, Wash. Y' don't spend enough time on it.”
“My protein loaf problem?” Wash stood stock still a moment, frown deepening, considering this.
Mal lifted both his brows. “The pastiness issue?” he reminded.
A momentary chagrin flitted across Wash's face, but then it was gone, and he tried to edge toward the engine room again, saying, “Yeah, but-”
Mal caught his shoulder. “Dinner, Wash. Now.”
And son of a gun, if the man's chin didn't jut forward, his eyes narrowing with the first mutinous look he'd ever offered Mal. Wash's muscles bunching under his palm, Mal needed to make a quick decision; hard or soft. And he went for soft, 'cuz while the guy had been acting a little more peculiar than usual the last day or two, in the previous six months, he'd never been anything but a willing, dedicated crewman. Odd, yes, in ways Mal didn't expect he'd ever fathom. But that was okay, 'cuz Wash was a pilot and a good one, and Mal could allow for a pilot being a little more touched in the head than most folks.
“Wash,” he said, voice low, gripping both the man's shoulders, but squeezing gently, rather than clamping down. And the way Wash relaxed under his touch let him know how important physical contact was to him. There followed a long pause, then Wash flushed a bright red.
“Sorry,” he muttered, clearly embarrassed by his senseless near-disobedience. “I'll go make dinner.” He started for the kitchen, but Mal held him back a moment longer.
“Know it's aggravating, Wash. But we're all doin' all we can to get Serenity goin'.”
Wash nodded jerkily, not meeting his eyes, then pulled out of his grip, heading toward the galley.
Three hours later, and the unexceptional smell of baked protein wafted from the kitchen. Mal sat at the table, Zoe to his left hand, and Bester, looking sullen and put-upon, one seat down from her, all waiting on Wash.
The guy had never gotten around to combing his hair after his shower, so it stuck up in crazy spikes around his head, just the way his towel had left it. That, combined with the over-large, tooth-baring grin stretching his mouth as he proudly presented the casserole dish, added to the sense that their regular supper-time had just become a slightly creepifying event.
The casserole itself, though, lay at the core of the disturbance. Its surface was mostly the yellowish-tan protein. One corner, though, consisted of series of pointy topped purple lumps. A bright blue oval lay flat in the center of the dish, and around that was scattered a number of green squares.
“Wash, what the hell?” Mal murmured, staring at what was purportedly his dinner, utterly bemused.
“It's a three-dimensional topographical map of the local area, Mal.” With a grin, Wash flourished the serving knife, then plunged it into the casserole, carving free a corner. Using the knife and his fork, he lifted it out of the dish, plopping it onto his own plate. He put down the knife to lift his serving aloft, using his fork to point to the colorful striations as he explained them.
“This bottom red stripe is the magma layer, this moon actually has a molten core, neat, huh? And yeah, I know, it's not actually to scale, but hey. And the dark brown on top of that is the igneous rock over that. This blue layer is the aquifer that the town's built over, and then we got another layer of rock and soil, in yellow, over that. And here, see, that oval of blue on the surface is the lake just outside town,” and here he pointed at the top of the casserole still left in the pan, “and this line of blue coming down out of the hills - purple mountains or just, y' know, hillocks majesty - is an artesian spring coming up out of the aquifer. These green squares are the soybean fields.” His mouth twisted ruefully to one side. “Sorry, I woulda put in the town, all the buildings, probably in red and tan, but I ran out of time.”
Mal, Zoe, and Bester all sat in confounded contemplation for a moment, then Zoe inquired dryly, “We're supposed to eat this?”
“Well, sure,” Wash replied, flushing a bit, probably because Zoe had spoken to him. “It's just protein loaf.” To prove his point, he dug his fork into the slice on his plate, and shoved that bite into his mouth, chewing animatedly. After a few moments, his face fell. “Still pasty,” he said dejectedly. “And I worked on it for hours.”
“Well,” Mal said, forcing an up-beat tone into his voice, “y' tried. An' it's certainly the most... edifyin' dinner I've been served in a good long while.” He took up the serving knife, saying, “Pass me your plate, Zoe.”
She shot him one filthy look, but then obeyed, receiving her portion, then stoically tucking into it. Mal's pointed glare and the fact that Zoe didn't keel over dead after her initial swallows had Bester reluctantly holding his plate out to accept a slice. Mal cut him a special piece, with a nice swath of purple mountains majesty. Then he served himself, generously, one and a half soybean fields gracing the surface of his square. He took a bite, wincing inwardly, and was relieved when it tasted pretty much like every other protein loaf Wash had ever baked. Bland, a little pasty, but essentially inoffensive. Truthfully, given the basic ingredients, there wasn't too much more a cook could hope for. And at least the guy had tried to make it geologically interesting.
All through this, Wash had his head down, mechanically shoveling and chewing, clearly any sense of fun he'd had in his little culinary adventure dissipated by his crewmates' reaction to his offering. Mal wanted to break through the barriers the man had set up, clearly signaled by the set of his shoulders, the angle of his head. But he couldn't think of a word to say, hampered as he was by the fact that he truly did not want to encourage the liberties Wash had taken with their foodstuffs. He glanced at Zoe, more or less out of habit, because she tended to step unquestioningly into any breech he had left open, even the verbal ones, forgetting for a moment that it was Wash, whom she had absolutely no use for, at the core of this situation. But she met his eyes, and for once her look wasn't so much, “You hired him, he's your problem,” but more “Sorry, I just don't have a handle on this one.” Like maybe she cared that their pilot might have just stepped over the line into officially nuts.
Silence stretched on, and was then Mal realized how many casual yet connective conversations Wash had initiated at this table. Bester kept glancing surreptitiously at Wash, then shooting Mal meaningful looks. Zoe ignored them all, unhurriedly consuming her portion of the moon. Wash finished quickly, then left the table, taking his dishes to the kitchen sink, then heading forward. Maybe to his bunk, but Mal suspected the bridge was his goal. Zoe took a second helping, and Mal wished Wash had stuck around long enough to see that.
She had clean up, and Mal hung around as she washed dishes, taking a sponge and scrubbing Serenity's scarred counter tops. They hadn't spoken a word to one another in many minutes, when Zoe, drying the casserole pan, said, “Could be he's dirt-sick.”
“Sick?” Somewhat alarmed, Mal stopped his scrubbing to look at her. “Dirt-sick? They got somethin' in the dirt here?” Terraformed worlds did, sometimes, have something go awry with their soil or air or water. Was one of the many reasons boosting the crew's inoculations regularly was a good idea.
“Not sick sick. It's like... a phobia. Dirt-sick. Land-crazy. Some spacers, they can't handle too much time on the ground. Had a cousin, had it bad.” She stooped to put the dish away in a cupboard. “Couldn't even step off our ship onto a world. Was afraid he'd somehow get trapped there forever. Knew we'd never leave him, but.” She latched the cupboard and stood, shrugging one shoulder. “Just couldn't take the chance.”
“But Wash ain't a spacer. Not born and raised anyways.”
She shrugged again. “Just sayin'.” She swung away from him, heading toward the cargo bay, to some task she'd set herself. Tone a bit disparaging, she tossed over her shoulder, “More likely, he's just the kinda naoshizhe that can't take bein' bored.”
As that kinda naoshizhe tended to be the bane of a sergeant's existence, Mal realized Wash might just have gotten another mark on the “Minus” side of Zoe's mental list. A bit troubling, as he didn't know as the man had any ticks at all on the “Plus” side. 'Cept maybe for bathing regularly.
~*~
naoshizhe - troublemaker
Ni tama de - screw his mother
On to Day Six...
Characters: Mal, Wash, Zoe, Bester, Kaylee.
Word count: ~4200
Summary: Set early pre-series. Serenity is stuck on the ground with major engine trouble. No one's exactly tickled about that fact, some lots less than others. In fact, some find it outright crazy-making.
~Day 5~
The next morning, to Mal's surprise, especially after the man's evening out, he found Bester awake and in the galley before any of the rest of them, fiddling with the coffee percolator. Mal noticed he was putting the filter in upside down, and took over before he could ruin the entire pot. He seemed to have something on his mind, given the way he was chewing on his lip and running his hand through his hair. Hoping he wasn't opening himself up to a woeful tale of sexual misfortune - 'cuz given how tense Bester was, he clearly hadn't gotten lucky the night before - Mal asked, “What's up?”
“Washburne,” he blurted, eyes wide and a little weird. “Y' gotta keep him outta the engine room.”
“Do I?”
“Mal. Captain. Please. Two days. Two solid days he's been in there with me, pokin' around, askin' questions, messin' with my tools. He's a freakin' flyboy, knows squat about engines, but thinks he can tell me what's what. Goin' on and on about this glitch he had here and that crash he had there. Ni tama de!” His fists bunched. “I'll take a spanner to his skull if I have to hear another word, swear t' God!”
Mal allowed himself one long slow blink over that last statement, giving himself time to think it all through. Truth be told, Bester had lost his geniusy luster in the last couple months. Besides being an uncomfortable crewmate of the sexually over-sharing story-telling kind, Mal was positive Serenity could be flying faster, farther, freer than she was. Wasn't exactly rational, this impression. But he had it anyway. (Wash, he felt certain, was the exact right pilot. To the point he was willing to ignore Zoe's reservations. And that was a pretty major ignoring. He couldn't remember any other significant personnel decision they'd differed on.)
Threats toward fellow crew, though, this was new from Bester, never the excitable type. Kinda hard to get him fired-up about much of anything, actually, especially work. Looked like Wash had discovered how to get him riled. Too bad it was goading him into fantasies of violence instead of into increased productivity.
Motion at the hatch pulled Mal's gaze there, as, yawning hugely, Wash stepped down into the the galley. Still in yesterday's flightsuit, the hair on the back of his head standing up in a wild tuft, clearly he'd spent the whole night in his chair. While not the first time he'd done so, they'd always been on the move before, and he'd been wanting to be close to the helm as Serenity flew through some hazard. Was no reason - no sensible reason - why he'd be sleeping in that chair while they were dirtside.
Bester saw him too, and, with a pleading look, whispered hoarsely, “Mal! Please!”
Lips tight, Mal gave him a single, affirmative nod, then said coolly, “Get yourself fed. Then get busy.” Then he leaned in, lowering his voice. “And don't ever think about raising a hand to any of my crew.”
Eyes widening, Bester took a step back, then with a jerky nod, averted his gaze. Head down, he reached for a bowl to serve himself some porridge from the slow-cooker Zoe'd started the night before. Meanwhile, Wash entered the kitchen, murmuring a groggy, “Good morning” before clattering around in a cupboard for a mug. Then, rolling it between his palms, he stood by the stove, rocking slightly, waiting for the percolator's last burble.
Bester slouched to the table, and Mal got himself some of the protein porridge, which smelled pretty gorram good that morning. Zoe'd gotten a hold of some raisins and cinnamon somewhere. Then he swapped places with Wash to get at the coffee, while Wash got a scoop of protein.
Mal wondered if he had a real morale problem coming to a head. Even given it was the first thing in the morning, both his crew were unusually quiet. And Bester, generally given to a leisurely tempo during meals, scarfed down his protein at a pace which suggested he was eager to dive back into the problem of Serenity's stricken engine. Mal suspected otherwise, suspected it was Wash perched on the edge of his seat across the table from him as he ate his own breakfast, watching him intently through pink-rimmed eyes that drove Bester on.
Zoe walked in in the middle of this, one brow going up as she got a sense of the peculiar mood. But she collected her coffee and porridge without comment, seating herself as usual at Mal's left hand.
“Mornin',” he greeted her.
“Mornin',” she replied, studying first Bester, seated one chair down from her, then Wash, just across the table.
Bester kept his head down, mouth too busy with his breakfast to say a word. Truly strange was that Wash simply nodded in her direction, before turning his gaze back on the mechanic. Usually he responded to any of her general greetings cheerfully, with an unshakably sunny smile. Now he ate on in stolid silence. Zoe began eating as well, eyes on her food. But Mal could tell most of her attention focused on Wash, and he watched as the set of her brows took on a slightly miffed angle. He couldn't fathom that, as Wash saying just about anything annoyed her, and he figured she'd like him better quiet. He took a bite of his own protein, enjoying the sweetness of the raisins, plump and juicy after hours in the slow-cooker. Was then he recollected about a month and a half ago, when Zoe'd last added them and cinnamon to the morning protein, the fuss Wash had made, saying they were his favorite additions to porridge. He found himself turning over two oddities in his mind; first, that Wash had yet to utter a word of compliment, and second, that Zoe seemed to notice that, and even odder, that it seemed to irk her that he hadn't.
His concerns about crew morale deepened.
Bester suddenly rose, and bolted for the kitchen, dumping his dishes in the sink before scurrying aft. Shoveling the last bites of protein into his mouth, Wash stood with his empty bowl, still chewing, to follow Bester. Mal caught him with a hand on his forearm.
“Got some errands for ya, Wash.”
“Um. Yeah,” Wash said slowly, pulling his eyes from Bester's retreating back and focusing them on Mal with some difficulty. Then Mal's words sank in, and he swallowed his mouthful before going on with growing interest, “Okay. That's good. Errands. What first?”
“First, we should fill up on water. Want you t' go over to the spaceport, they got a tanker there. Want you to see if you can get them to come on out here t' top us off, for a fee that won't empty our purse.”
Wash nodded, looking cheerful about doing something to make their ship flight-ready.
“Second thing. Talked to Song Dou yesterday, the fella whose fallow bean field we're occupyin'. He's willin', in lieu of cashy money, to accept our very valuable, fertilizer-quality sludge as payment for our rent. So, when you're down at the spaceport seein' about the water, look into borrowin' their honey wagon. Need you to supervise us gettin' pumped clean, an' the sludge to Song.”
Wash nodded again, more dutiful than cheerful this time.
Mal grinned as he promised him, “Y' get first dibs on the shower once ya got all that done. You can make it a long one.”
“Long, hot shower, yesss,” Wash chortled gleefully, lifting his eyes in hallelujah. While Wyoming had plenty of water, out here away from easy access to the spaceport services, they'd all been restricted to bathing as though they were still in the Black. Which meant sponge baths or cleansing gel with a quick splash in the shower on a rotating schedule, once every four days. And while Mal was of course pleased by the prospect that he, as well as everyone else on board Serenity, would all have shower access in the next twenty-four hours, he was more gratified by the normal, for Wash, jubilant response to the shower issue.
“I'll get your dishes,” he said, taking Wash's bowl and mug.
“Shiny,” Wash replied with a grin, then headed for the cargo bay.
“Wash.” The man turned at Mal's call. “Comb your hair b'fore you go.”
Smiling sheepishly, he nodded as he ran a palm over his head, attempting to tame his wayward tufts. “Might take more 'n a comb, Captain. But I'll get right on it.” His eyes slid to Zoe, then he turned away, cheeks going pink, both hands now vigorously smoothing his hair as he went.
Mal grinned, pleased to see Wash acting more or less like his usual self. He looked to Zoe, and she gave her head a little shake, rolling her eyes. And it was good to see her acting normal-like too.
A short time after Wash took off, the delivery of protein showed up in a horse-drawn wagon. Zoe and Mal helped the driver unload it, then set about stashing it away, some of it in the galley, but the bulk of it in the bay. A half an hour after that, shifting cases of protein around so that they provided maximum coverage for less innocuous cargo, Mal heard the sound of a large truck's engine approaching Serenity. He ceased his sorting to go to the open forward bay hatch, stopping at the top of the ramp. He watched as the tanker he'd noted at the spaceport slowly jounced its way through farmer Song's field. He spotted his pilot through its windshield, sitting in the passenger seat. He caught sight of Mal and waved. Mal lifted his hand in return, then got back to his chore. Some twenty minutes after that, he went to watch the truck drive away, Wash again in the passenger seat.
Was nearly two hours before the sludge collector showed up. Had it been Bester assigned the chore, Mal would have suspected malingering. But that wasn't Wash's way, so he figured maybe he was needing some time to track down the operator of said honey wagon. He didn't hear it coming, as he was back in the passenger dorms, giving those bunks a good dusting, then unrolling, airing out, and re-rolling in the opposite direction all the sleeping mats on the beds. As much as he disliked taking on passengers and having strangers nosing about in his business, he figured he might have to take on a few in the near future, to plump up their peckish purse. Especially as arriving on Paquin in a timely manner was looking more and more problematic. Was Zoe, doing an inventory in the cargo bay, who spotted it, hitting the comm to inform him, “Sludge truck's here.”
He came forward, joining Zoe at the top of ramp to watch the truck wallow through the loose soil of the field, following the water tanker's tracks. Again, Wash waved from the passenger seat, and this time, Mal recognized the driver. The redheaded woman he'd seen in the bar the first day they'd gone into town. She too raised a hand in greeting, sunlight flashing off the steel of her prosthesis. Then she steered the truck out of their sight, to Serenity's port side, where the waste-dump access valve was situated. Both Mal and Zoe walked down the ramp and around the side.
The woman had already stopped the truck and opened her door, swinging down onto the ground with a rich, wholehearted laugh which definitely stirred Mal's masculine interest. He heard Wash's voice as he spoke through the cab, though he couldn't make out what he was saying. But whatever it was got another one of those all-in laughs from the driver. Then she spotted Mal and Zoe, and still grinning, pushed the door closed. An echoing slam let Mal know Wash was out of the truck too.
She strode toward them, extended her left hand, the flesh one, to Mal, saying, “You must be Captain Reynolds. Lara Sullivan.” He took her hand as they exchanged a look of acknowledgment, one that those on the losing side often shared upon meeting. Her grip was strong, and he speculated that her body, its generous curves apparent even under her baggy coveralls, was equally so.
“Lara Sullivan, my XO, Zoe Alleyne.” The women exchanged handshakes and nods. Then Wash, grinning, stepped around the back of the truck, unzipping his flightsuit halfway, shucking it off his shoulders to tie the arms around his waist.
“Sorry I took so long, Captain. Had to hike a few klicks to Lara's place to discuss truck borrowing.”
“My fault,” the woman interjected. “Won't have the Cortex in my home. Plus, I made him sit and snap a kilo of green beans before I agreed to lend my wagon.”
“Never had fresh, raw green beans before,” Wash said, giving Lara a wide, crinkle-eyed smile. “Tasty.”
Clearly, the two of them were getting on like a house on fire, and Mal had to wonder what other chores Sullivan had required of him. None of his business, really, and Wash's ability to charm spaceport vendors had stood Mal and his purse in good stead over the last few months. Then Wash went on, his gaze flicking between the three of them, “So we'll get to it then, yeah?”
While not quite getting his pilot's diffidence, Mal did appreciate his focus on the task at hand. With a sharp nod, he said, “Carry on.” Sullivan about-faced immediately, striding toward the side of the truck, while Wash nodded in return first before ducking beneath Serenity's belly.
“Want me to help, Captain?” Zoe asked, tilting her chin toward the access valve, where Wash was keying in the unlock code at the same time as he was chuckling at whatever Sullivan was saying as she loosed the tie-downs from the wagon's uptake hose.
“No, I sure as hell don't,” he stated. “The longer he's workin' out here, the longer I don't gotta worry about him an' Bester an' unauthorized spanner-usage.”
She peered at him quizzically, then shrugged, pivoting sharply to head back to whatever tasks she'd set herself in the bay.
Removing sludge took longer than adding water, so it was a good hour before Mal heard the truck's engine turning over. He trotted quickly to the cargo bay ramp, to watch as Sullivan carefully turned her heavy wagon around in the field's loose soil. Headed toward town, she leaned way out the side window, looking back as she waved good-bye. Wash, standing at the foot of the ramp, returned her wave. Mal, upon reaching the bottom to stand beside him, lifted his own hand. After a couple inhales, Mal took one large sideways step away from his pilot. The man shot him a mock injured look.
“Harsh, very harsh,” he murmured.
“Think I promised you a long hot shower, Wash. Why don't you go take advantage? Take as long as you like, in fact.”
“Your wish, Captain, is my command.” And with a jaunty salute, Wash took his sweaty, whiffy self inside, heading toward his bunk for his toiletries, intoning, “Unclean, unclean,” as he trotted up the catwalk steps.
And despite Wash's cheerful demeanor, despite his long, indulgent wallow under a hot spray, and his tuneful humming as he returned to his bunk in his bath robe, damp and sweet and clean, for a fresh flightsuit, Mal stood waiting for him by the hatch in the galley. The one that led aft, to the engine room, where Bester labored, looked in on frequently by both Zoe and himself.
Sure enough, Wash soon emerged from the forward corridor, hair even wilder than it had been this morning, standing upright in towel-dried spikes, bee-lining across the galley toward the engine room. He seemed a bit startled when Mal stepped in front of him, blocking the way aft.
“Wash, don't you got dinner duty?”
“Yeah, Cap'n,” he replied, smiling agreeably. “But that's not for another three hours. And it's just protein loaf.” He stepped sideways, to move around Mal. Mal countered him, and Wash stopped short again, frowning a bit.
“Now, see, that there could be the root of your protein loaf problem, Wash. Y' don't spend enough time on it.”
“My protein loaf problem?” Wash stood stock still a moment, frown deepening, considering this.
Mal lifted both his brows. “The pastiness issue?” he reminded.
A momentary chagrin flitted across Wash's face, but then it was gone, and he tried to edge toward the engine room again, saying, “Yeah, but-”
Mal caught his shoulder. “Dinner, Wash. Now.”
And son of a gun, if the man's chin didn't jut forward, his eyes narrowing with the first mutinous look he'd ever offered Mal. Wash's muscles bunching under his palm, Mal needed to make a quick decision; hard or soft. And he went for soft, 'cuz while the guy had been acting a little more peculiar than usual the last day or two, in the previous six months, he'd never been anything but a willing, dedicated crewman. Odd, yes, in ways Mal didn't expect he'd ever fathom. But that was okay, 'cuz Wash was a pilot and a good one, and Mal could allow for a pilot being a little more touched in the head than most folks.
“Wash,” he said, voice low, gripping both the man's shoulders, but squeezing gently, rather than clamping down. And the way Wash relaxed under his touch let him know how important physical contact was to him. There followed a long pause, then Wash flushed a bright red.
“Sorry,” he muttered, clearly embarrassed by his senseless near-disobedience. “I'll go make dinner.” He started for the kitchen, but Mal held him back a moment longer.
“Know it's aggravating, Wash. But we're all doin' all we can to get Serenity goin'.”
Wash nodded jerkily, not meeting his eyes, then pulled out of his grip, heading toward the galley.
Three hours later, and the unexceptional smell of baked protein wafted from the kitchen. Mal sat at the table, Zoe to his left hand, and Bester, looking sullen and put-upon, one seat down from her, all waiting on Wash.
The guy had never gotten around to combing his hair after his shower, so it stuck up in crazy spikes around his head, just the way his towel had left it. That, combined with the over-large, tooth-baring grin stretching his mouth as he proudly presented the casserole dish, added to the sense that their regular supper-time had just become a slightly creepifying event.
The casserole itself, though, lay at the core of the disturbance. Its surface was mostly the yellowish-tan protein. One corner, though, consisted of series of pointy topped purple lumps. A bright blue oval lay flat in the center of the dish, and around that was scattered a number of green squares.
“Wash, what the hell?” Mal murmured, staring at what was purportedly his dinner, utterly bemused.
“It's a three-dimensional topographical map of the local area, Mal.” With a grin, Wash flourished the serving knife, then plunged it into the casserole, carving free a corner. Using the knife and his fork, he lifted it out of the dish, plopping it onto his own plate. He put down the knife to lift his serving aloft, using his fork to point to the colorful striations as he explained them.
“This bottom red stripe is the magma layer, this moon actually has a molten core, neat, huh? And yeah, I know, it's not actually to scale, but hey. And the dark brown on top of that is the igneous rock over that. This blue layer is the aquifer that the town's built over, and then we got another layer of rock and soil, in yellow, over that. And here, see, that oval of blue on the surface is the lake just outside town,” and here he pointed at the top of the casserole still left in the pan, “and this line of blue coming down out of the hills - purple mountains or just, y' know, hillocks majesty - is an artesian spring coming up out of the aquifer. These green squares are the soybean fields.” His mouth twisted ruefully to one side. “Sorry, I woulda put in the town, all the buildings, probably in red and tan, but I ran out of time.”
Mal, Zoe, and Bester all sat in confounded contemplation for a moment, then Zoe inquired dryly, “We're supposed to eat this?”
“Well, sure,” Wash replied, flushing a bit, probably because Zoe had spoken to him. “It's just protein loaf.” To prove his point, he dug his fork into the slice on his plate, and shoved that bite into his mouth, chewing animatedly. After a few moments, his face fell. “Still pasty,” he said dejectedly. “And I worked on it for hours.”
“Well,” Mal said, forcing an up-beat tone into his voice, “y' tried. An' it's certainly the most... edifyin' dinner I've been served in a good long while.” He took up the serving knife, saying, “Pass me your plate, Zoe.”
She shot him one filthy look, but then obeyed, receiving her portion, then stoically tucking into it. Mal's pointed glare and the fact that Zoe didn't keel over dead after her initial swallows had Bester reluctantly holding his plate out to accept a slice. Mal cut him a special piece, with a nice swath of purple mountains majesty. Then he served himself, generously, one and a half soybean fields gracing the surface of his square. He took a bite, wincing inwardly, and was relieved when it tasted pretty much like every other protein loaf Wash had ever baked. Bland, a little pasty, but essentially inoffensive. Truthfully, given the basic ingredients, there wasn't too much more a cook could hope for. And at least the guy had tried to make it geologically interesting.
All through this, Wash had his head down, mechanically shoveling and chewing, clearly any sense of fun he'd had in his little culinary adventure dissipated by his crewmates' reaction to his offering. Mal wanted to break through the barriers the man had set up, clearly signaled by the set of his shoulders, the angle of his head. But he couldn't think of a word to say, hampered as he was by the fact that he truly did not want to encourage the liberties Wash had taken with their foodstuffs. He glanced at Zoe, more or less out of habit, because she tended to step unquestioningly into any breech he had left open, even the verbal ones, forgetting for a moment that it was Wash, whom she had absolutely no use for, at the core of this situation. But she met his eyes, and for once her look wasn't so much, “You hired him, he's your problem,” but more “Sorry, I just don't have a handle on this one.” Like maybe she cared that their pilot might have just stepped over the line into officially nuts.
Silence stretched on, and was then Mal realized how many casual yet connective conversations Wash had initiated at this table. Bester kept glancing surreptitiously at Wash, then shooting Mal meaningful looks. Zoe ignored them all, unhurriedly consuming her portion of the moon. Wash finished quickly, then left the table, taking his dishes to the kitchen sink, then heading forward. Maybe to his bunk, but Mal suspected the bridge was his goal. Zoe took a second helping, and Mal wished Wash had stuck around long enough to see that.
She had clean up, and Mal hung around as she washed dishes, taking a sponge and scrubbing Serenity's scarred counter tops. They hadn't spoken a word to one another in many minutes, when Zoe, drying the casserole pan, said, “Could be he's dirt-sick.”
“Sick?” Somewhat alarmed, Mal stopped his scrubbing to look at her. “Dirt-sick? They got somethin' in the dirt here?” Terraformed worlds did, sometimes, have something go awry with their soil or air or water. Was one of the many reasons boosting the crew's inoculations regularly was a good idea.
“Not sick sick. It's like... a phobia. Dirt-sick. Land-crazy. Some spacers, they can't handle too much time on the ground. Had a cousin, had it bad.” She stooped to put the dish away in a cupboard. “Couldn't even step off our ship onto a world. Was afraid he'd somehow get trapped there forever. Knew we'd never leave him, but.” She latched the cupboard and stood, shrugging one shoulder. “Just couldn't take the chance.”
“But Wash ain't a spacer. Not born and raised anyways.”
She shrugged again. “Just sayin'.” She swung away from him, heading toward the cargo bay, to some task she'd set herself. Tone a bit disparaging, she tossed over her shoulder, “More likely, he's just the kinda naoshizhe that can't take bein' bored.”
As that kinda naoshizhe tended to be the bane of a sergeant's existence, Mal realized Wash might just have gotten another mark on the “Minus” side of Zoe's mental list. A bit troubling, as he didn't know as the man had any ticks at all on the “Plus” side. 'Cept maybe for bathing regularly.
~*~
naoshizhe - troublemaker
Ni tama de - screw his mother
On to Day Six...