Fic: Sticking Point (6/9)
Rating: PG13
Characters: Mal, Wash, Zoe, Bester, Kaylee.
Word count: ~5200
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 6~
Just as Mal climbed out of the hatch to his bunk that morning, Wash was coming down from the bridge. He stopped a couple steps from the bottom when Mal turned to look at him. He'd clearly spent the night in his chair again. And nothing about his chaotic hair or the dark smudges under his eyes suggested he'd slept well. After a few moments, Wash descended the rest of the way, ducking his head as he murmured, “Morning, Captain,” then triggered open the hatch to his bunk to disappear below.
“Mornin',” Mal returned as the hatch hissed shut. Pursing his lips, he went to get breakfast. And again, it was disconcerting to find Bester up before him, already at the table, gnawing on a protein bar. Zoe there too made it somewhat less irregular, though the glance she gave him was more than usually jaundiced. He did note that her breakfast of choice was leftovers from last night, chopped up and refried in a rainbow confetti. As he walked by the table, nodding his good-mornings, he caught a whiff of fermented fish sauce. Hand to heaven, he never had been able to fathom why Zoe'd put that on her food voluntarily, at any time, let alone first thing in the morning. 'Course she'd never come to understand his appreciation for the mighty habanero. He reckoned it was all about what was served at the family table, growing up. Five minutes later, as he was bringing his plate and mug to the table, she was rising, a pointed look goading Bester to his feet as well.
“Thinkin' of heading into town,” Zoe stated. She jerked her chin toward the mechanic. “Says he needs some zero gauge stranded wire. Thought I could take him over to the junk yard, see if they got what we need.”
“Didn't we trade off a box of doohickies for some wiring with Monty a month or so back?” Mal queried, pulling out his chair and sitting down.
“Yeah,” Bester replied with a grimace, “but that's all three gauge or higher. Could burn out when I run the power levels we need through that.”
“Runnin' power suggests progress. We got progress, Bester?”
“Some, Mal,” he replied, nodding and grinning. “Shit load easier t' get work done, without Washburne hangin' around.”
“So we should be flyin' any time now. Like today.”
“Aw, don't know about that, Mal.” Bester, still grinning, gave a floppy shrug. “Haven't yet tracked down the glitch with the thrusters, and there's something dicey with one of the grav boots, don't know what. Prob'ly 'nother day, at least.”
“Y' do know, Bester, that we ain't bein' paid for these days we're stuck in the dirt.”
“Sure, Mal, I know that. But what can y' do?”
“Can get my engines fixed. That's what I pay you for. Provided, of course, that I get paid.”
“Yeah, but.” Bester shrugged again.
Mal contemplated shooting his mechanic. Just a little bit, mind you, maybe take off a toe, or graze some large, fleshy area, on the off-chance that might inspire a greater dedication to his task. Zoe must have seen something in his face, because she tugged Bester's coffee cup from his hand, saying, “I'll get this. You go get the mule an' trailer ready.”
Blissfully ignorant of the tenor of his captain's wayward thoughts, Bester grinned and said, “Shiny!” then sauntered aft.
Zoe gave Mal a repressive look, and he sighed theatrically, complaining, “Y' never let me have any fun.” She shook her head, then took the dishes into the kitchen, where she had them washed, dried, and put away before he had half his coffee drunk. As she headed below to join Bester, Mal said, “Looks likely we'll be around to get the other half of our protein order.”
Zoe nodded, understanding his meaning, that their purse, rapidly approaching empty, needed to cover that deal first. “I'll put off buyin' that gold-plated toilet seat for the main head then.”
“Appreciate that. 'Sides, I been thinkin', metal plating, even gold, it could get mighty cold. Kinda off-puttin', even alarmin', 'specially in the middle of the night.”
She gave him one of her rare grins, and said over her shoulder as she stepped through the hatch, “Guess maybe we wanna rethink that particular upgrade.”
“Guess we do,” he replied, smiling broadly, his poker face breaking under the impact of her sudden impish warmth. He realized that, yeah, maybe they were pushing the limits of their schedule, in hitting Paquin. But still, the deal they were getting on the protein would keep them out of the red and fed, even if the Paquin meet fell through.
Wash stepped down into the galley as Mal spooned the last of his breakfast into his mouth. And Mal could see the man had made a real attempt to collect himself. His cheeks and chin were fresh shaved, his mustache trimmed and his damp hair combed ruthlessly into place. He had on the same flightsuit he'd put on after showering yesterday, but then, Mal'd been wearing the same trousers for a week and the same shirt for a couple days. He did have on clean underwear and socks, and he supposed it was the same for Wash, although he wasn't about to inquire. And when the man came up to him, all he could smell was shaving cream mixed with a hint of the sandalwood scent of the brand of cleansing gel Wash preferred.
Wash took a deep breath, then said, “About dinner last night, Capt'n. I'm sorry. I got a little carried away.” And the guy's voice was steady and normal. But his shoulders were up and stiff, and he had an anxious tightness around his eyes.
Mal nodded slowly. “That y' did. But I guess I shoulda known better than to ask an imaginative man such as yourself to spend three hours workin' on a protein loaf.” He leaned back, rocking his chair onto its hind legs, grinning. “Shoulda known the results would be... creative.”
The tense lines of Wash's shoulders relaxed, and he laughed, Mal thought more out of relief than amusement. Wondered if maybe the man had been frettin' that he was gonna have some kinda sanction laid down on him.
Grinning, Wash went on to say, “Guess it was a good thing I didn't go with my first impulse, then, a three dimensional model of the Parliament Building on Londinum.”
“I thank you for your restraint. Don't know as I could've stomached that for dinner, let alone breakfast leftovers.” He tilted his head toward his empty plate.
“Could see where that might be hard to swallow.” Then his smile faded a bit, his eyes shifting toward but not quite getting to pointing at the hatch aft to the engine room. He said, sounding a bit tentative, “I thought I'd rerun the deep diagnostic on the helm programming. But only if we're going to be grounded for another day. And if you don't want me working on-” He gestured aft, toward the engine room, a twitching flick of both hands.
“You go ahead an' run that diagnostic, Wash,” Mal replied lightly, not allowing any of his own frustration to color his tone. “Looks like y' got the time.”
The man's shoulders sagged, but for just a moment. Then he pulled them back, and with a nod, said, “I'll get right on it.” He pivoted, heading forward.
“Wash.”
He turned back. “Yeah, Captain?”
“Don't be thinkin' y' can avoid last night's leftovers. Get back here an' eat somethin'.” Mal pointed at the kitchen. The guy opened his mouth, maybe to protest that he wasn't hungry, which was as may be. But a body needed fueling, and Mal wasn't about to let Wash neglect that. Plus, it was only right that he take on his fair share of the remaining casserole.
Perceiving that arguing would be useless by the steadiness of Mal's pointing finger, Wash closed his mouth, smiling ruefully. “Jong mai duh mai. Or in my case, sow protein loaf, reap protein loaf.”
Zoe and Bester were back before noon, ten meters of zero gauge wiring on the mule's trailer. Zoe immediately hustled Bester and the cable into the engine room, and Bester's sulkiness and the tight set of Zoe's lips suggested to Mal that their trip into town hadn't run completely smooth. But Zoe offered no particulars, so he didn't press. He spent the rest of his day cycling slowly between the cargo bay, the engine room, the bridge, and then around again. Being in the bay was fine, just him and Zoe working on any one of the many tasks running a freight vessel imposed upon them. The engine room was aggravating, 'cuz while it always seemed like meaningful activity was taking place - panels open, tools being loudly used, more grease streaking Bester's bare torso with every visit - nothing actually ever changed. It was always, “Nope, sorry, Mal,” followed by a stream of tech talk Mal could make neither head nor tail of.
Heading up to the bridge was equally disheartening. Not 'cuz he thought Wash wasn't doing his bit, 'cuz he'd come up the stairs, hearing the sound of Wash's fingers tappity-tapping on the navsats keyboard, and when he got there, lines of numbers and symbols would be reeling upward on the screen, which, honestly, he understood even less than Bester's spiels. But every time he entered the bridge, Wash's eyes - wide, hopeful, increasingly bloodshot - would swing to him, and he'd have to shake his head and say, “Nothin' new.” And the man would duck his head a moment, then nod, before turning away, nimble fingers again flicking over his board.
Then, about an hour before dinner, on another restless round through his ship, Mal came up into the galley from the bay, hoping for but not expecting a positive report from Bester. And there he found Wash, one shoulder on the edge of the aft hatch to the corridor to the engine room, leaning there, head bowed, expression blank yet somehow intent. As though he were listening with absolute concentration. He was so focused, in fact, that Mal was just a pace away before Wash noticed him, starting upright, chagrin twitching over his face before he composed himself, trying for a casual, “Hey, Captain.”
“What's up, Wash?”
“I- Well, I've finished running the diagnostic. And I just thought maybe I should... It's awful quiet back there, Mal. Maybe I should go back and give him a hand.”
“Nope,” Mal replied, making a sudden decision.
“I won't say a word, I promise,” Wash said in a rush, eyes wide and earnest. “I'll just pass him tools. Run errands.” Smiling weakly, he tried for a quip. “Mop his sweaty brow.”
“Nope.” Mal set a hand on his shoulder, steering him toward the stairs to the cargo bay and the main hatch. “You're comin' with me.”
“Well, where are we going?”
“Anywhere not here.”
By the time the two of them had reached the cargo bay, Mal had a plan, of which he informed Zoe as they passed by her on the way to the front hatch.
“We're gonna grab a bite an' a couple beers in town, Zoe. Wash's been starin' at his screen all day, looks to be goin' cross-eyed, and he ain't had any downtime as yet.”
“Yes, sir,” she replied, giving him a neutral nod before going back to her manifest clipboard.
Wash slowed for a few paces, looking back at her, then trotted forward, catching up with Mal on the ramp. “Maybe Zoe'd like to come. She deserves a break, too.”
Mal shook his head, striding on. “Need her to keep an eye on Bester.”
Wash glanced over his shoulder, brows knit as he nibbled on the corner of his mustache, clearly torn between his consideration of Zoe and his need for Bester to complete his repairs. Need won and he silently matched his gait to Mal's. He did, however, look back every tenth step or so, a tiny frown compressing his face.
A few hundred meters down the path laid by the two trucks, Mal finally stated, “She ain't goin' anywhere without you.”
“What?” Wash stared at him, eyes round and a little spooked looking.
“Serenity. She needs you to get back aloft. And 'sides, ain't no way in hell she'll leave without me.”
Wash blinked a couple times, then smiled, saying, “True that.” He cast a final glance back, then turned his face forward, murmuring so low that Mal barely caught it, “That's true.”
Took about twenty minutes to walk to town, and they could've taken the mule. But Mal figured the exercise would do them both good, and besides, it saved on petrol. Mal was prepared to go along with Wash's love of chat as they strolled, only in part to give the guy an outlet. Truth was, Wash listened as well as he talked, and Mal did enjoy spinning a tale. Almost as much as Zoe did, if you could just get her started, although that was no easy task.
But Wash hiked along in silence, following his two long shadows sliding along ahead of him, one cast by the far off Sun, the other by Wyoming's principal, Heinlein, both sinking below the horizon behind them. Was kinda peaceful and companionable, both looking up together to follow the line of cawing crows winging toward their evening perches, or swiveling their heads to listen to the first sweet, tentative warbles of some night bird. Wash did jump to one side when they startled a rabbit from between the field's furrows, yellow dust spurting from beneath its hind feet as it darted off. Mal didn't chuckle over Wash's alarm until he did first.
Their feet found the road, dirt most of the way, turning to asphalt just in time to be the town's main street. Though the shops were dark and there were no street lamps, Heinlein, even at just a sinking razor thin blue crescent, cast enough light for them to easily see their way. The windows of the sheriff's office glowed a warm gold, as did the windows and open door of the bar. Mal led Wash to the latter establishment, onto the porch, and then up the half-step inside. He made a quick scan of the room on his way to the bar. He figured maybe they'd arrived ahead of most of the evening's business, as the only patrons were the three raggedy men at their usual corner table.
“Evenin', ma'am.” Mal nodded politely to the watchful barkeep before turning to his pilot. “A pale good by you, Wash? Can attest that it's quite fine.”
Wash turned his gaze, which had been roaming curiously about the place, to the woman behind the bar to assert, “A pale is perfect.”
“Two pints, then. And are y' servin' dinner?”
“Yep. Chashao bao. Steamed cabbage on the side.”
Wash made a little noise through his nose, might have been a whimper, which Mal interpreted as thumbs up for the special. “Two of those as well, please.”
Mal couldn't watch Wash eat his dinner - fluffy dumplings steamed around sweet and spicy pork - 'cuz his ecstatic expression was too close to what a fella's sex face might be like. And anyway, couldn't be too sure about the lines his own face were set in, so probably best just keep his eyes on his own plate and enjoy.
He came up for air about fifteen minutes later to the sound of Wash's sated sigh and the click of his chopsticks as he set them across his plate. As he watched, his pilot drained the last inch from his glass, then set it down with a gentle, reverent burp.
“Okay, then?” Mal asked.
“Yep.”
“Round of darts?”
“Sure.”
Mal nodded at the barkeep's inquiring lift of one brow, and he and Wash waited a moment as she refilled their pints. Carefully picking up the brimming glasses, they abandoned their spots at the bar to saunter over to the dartboard. Mal was gonna propose that they play for coin but the tight cluster Wash threw while testing his darts' balance quickly stifled that notion. Hell, he was already paying - well, Serenity's slush fund was - for the guy's drinks and dinner. No need to indulge him further.
More customers wandered in as they played, and while Mal's eyes flicked to the door at each newcomer's entry, it was more reflex than active wariness. Wyoming might be down on its luck and Rim, but it was country-Rim, not crazy-Rim. He nodded at Mr. Song upon his arrival, and the man returned his nod solemnly before picking up a drink at the bar, then joining two men at one of the largish round tables. Clearly father and his barely adult son, the elder wore grease-stained mechanic's coveralls, while the younger sported a puffy black eye. That eye was turned rather sullenly upon his bottle of orange pop.
Mal exchanged nods with Sheriff Huan as well when he came through the door a short while later. The lawman left it at that, though, going on to collect himself a pint at the bar, and then joining Song and the two other men at their table. He apparently said something joshing to the youngster, 'cuz that individual ducked his head, grinning sheepishly, while to two older men chuckled.
While Wash was tugging his darts free, Mal tilted the last swallow of his ale into his mouth, congratulating himself again for not suggesting they play for money. It had become a forgone conclusion that Wash was gonna whip him pretty damn soundly, unless the man suddenly lost all feeling in both hands ('cuz he'd been alternating between his left and his right, with no discernible loss of accuracy) or went abruptly blind. Wash turned away from the board, and Mal held up his empty, already heading toward the bar, and Wash gave him a little nod. Mal came back with two pints, setting the second down next to the half-full one Wash was still working on.
The man eyed it askance, saying, “I do believe you are attempting to affect the outcome of this game by devious means, Captain.”
“Hell, no, ain't devious. Just flat out-right aimin' to get you drunk. Looks like the only chance I got to win.”
“Aw, no point. I just look at the two dartboards, calculate the geometric mean between the areas I wanna hit, and let fly. Works every time.”
“Don't make me regret hirin' you on.”
Wash pursed his lips, knotting his brows in mock-concern. “Could try throwin' with my eyes closed.”
“Don't reckon that'd help.”
“Probably not,” Wash admitted, ducking his head modestly.
“So drink your beer.”
“Aye aye, Captain.”
Wash was throwing when Sullivan walked in, and this time Mal did more than nod. He smiled outright, lifting his hand in greeting, and she smiled right back as she headed straight for them. Wash tossed his last dart, glancing around to see who Mal had been waving to. The man's face lit right up when he saw her, and Mal let himself feel the smugness of a scheme well schemed. He took Sullivan's offered hand, very glad to see her, saying, “Ms. Sullivan,” in response to her “Captain Reynolds.” She then took Wash's hand, holding onto it a bit and saying, “Wash” with a deeper smile than she'd offered Mal.
“Hey, Lara,” he replied, and he was clearly happier to see her than even Mal was.
“Have to say I'm mighty pleased to see you, Ms. Sullivan,” Mal declared, affecting exaggerated relief. “Seems my pilot here has no sense of propriety, and is thumpin' me soundly at this here game. Care to save my captainy pride, and take over for me?” He tilted his head toward the table Huan and Song occupied. “There's some folks over there I'd like to have a word with.”
“Glad to be of service, Cap'n.”
“Thank you kindly. I'm gonna get this topped off. Can I get you somethin'?”
“A glass of Ngkapei would be welcome.”
“Comin' up.” He looked to his pilot. “Wash?”
Wash's eyes slid to his barely sipped third pint. “No, I'm good.”
Mal fetched Sullivan her wine, then committed a strategic withdrawal, refilled pint in hand, approaching the sheriff's table. Its occupants looked up at his arrival, and he offered them a genial smile.
“Sheriff Huan, Mr. Song. Good evenin'.”
“Evening, Captain Reynolds. Care to sit with us?”
“Would be a pleasure, Sheriff.” He pulled back a free chair, inclining his head toward Song, then turning his attention to the men he didn't yet know.
The sheriff, playing host, said, “You know Mr. Song. Allow me to introduce Leland Frye.” The older man offered his hand, and Mal took it, noting the heavy calluses and the careful power of his grip. Probably in his mid-forties, his genial face was already heavily lined. “And his son, Caspar.” Mal offered his hand to the younger Frye, who took it, looking surprised but gratified to be included in this adult male ritual. In his late teens, his face was shaped in the same genial roundness as his pa's, but he was already taller, and far leaner, than his old man. His left eye sported a fine shiner, aging to lovely shades of green and yellow around the edges. Remembering a scrap of conversation from the first time he'd met Huan, Mal gathered that this was the “young Frye” who he'd had cooling in lock-up. The sheriff went on, “Leland owns our machine shop and sees to our salvage yard across from the spaceport.” He tilted a hand toward Mal. “Gentlemen, this is Captain Malcolm Reynolds, off the ship set in Duo's field.”
The Fryes nodded their greetings, then the elder asked, pointing with his chin toward Wash, “That your man, Captain Reynolds?”
Mal glanced across the room, where Wash was watching Sullivan take careful aim at the dartboard. “My pilot, yeah. Goes by Wash.”
The younger Frye interjected, “He ain't the fella come by the yard today, Pop.”
“That woulda been my mechanic, Bester,” Mal said, now remembering that Zoe hadn't been perfectly cheerful when the two of them had returned to Serenity that morning. “Came into town with my first mate, Zoe Alleyne, this morning. Was there a problem?”
The youngster looked over at him, and he took on the expression that lots of men did, when talking about Zoe, a mix of caution and masculine appreciation. “No. No, sir, no problem. That first mate of yours, Miss Alleyne? Don't imagine many problems dare come up, when she's around.”
Mal chuckled. “You got that right.” And he proceeded to tell them a little tale, one to break the ice, one set in the last few months, about Zoe getting the better of a slaving lao chien off Bernadette. Wasn't the best Zoe-tale he had, but he didn't tell war stories if he wasn't absolutely sure where all his audience stood on that Event. Plus, with his best Zoe-stories, he had to make sure those listening had strong stomachs and weren't easily shocked. He got an appreciative laugh, 'cuz everyone this far out liked a story about putting one over a Core suit, and then was able to ease back in his chair and just listen to the other men talk, nodding and adding supportive grunts.
The bar continued to have in-coming and out-going, and Mal's eyes flicked automatically toward every movement. The entrance of a woman, vaguely familiar, engaged his eye. She paused a moment, scanning the room, and that gave him enough time to recollect where he'd seen her before. At lunch, the first day they'd been down, sitting across from Sullivan. Dark, lean, even wiry, about a head shorter than Lara. But she had that same competent, don't-get-in-my-face air about her, and Mal was pretty gorram sure she'd seen action of the fire-fight kind. She spotted Sullivan immediately, playing darts with Wash. The wary set of her features eased, her mouth curving into a joy-filled smile, and she made right for them.
Now, Mal had to admit to a little slump to his morale right then. 'Cuz truth be told, he'd been kinda counting on Sullivan taking Wash home and having her way with him. Just in the interest of knocking the man's own morale up a notch and untangling some nerves that had become a little too tightly wound. The addition of a third-wheel sort of friend made that hope of his a little more problematic.
And then Mal felt his brows go up as the situation got just a little more awkward. The dark woman came up, to stand right next to Sullivan, one hand coming up to rest possessively in the small of her back. She said something, looking Wash right in the eye, and Sullivan became very still. For a moment, so did Wash. But then he grinned, his face full of mischief as he replied, and after a second both women laughed, the dark woman tossing her head back in delight. Her hand dropped off of Sullivan's waist and she went to the bar to place an order. In moments, she came back to the dart game, three double shots of whiskey held in the triangle of her two hands.
Mal tried to keep the next hour's worth of attention fixed on the men around the table with him and their conversation. But he had to admit Wash's dart game was a tad more interesting than rambling speculations about the success of next season's soybean crop. Not that he could hear a word of what the man and the two women exchanged among themselves. But there was a lot of shared laughter, and by their second round of whiskey the women's hands had gotten a little wandersome, lighting down casually on Wash's shoulders, back, hips. His own hands were behaving themselves perfectly, touching only his darts and shot glass. But Mal didn't think he minded. All the alcohol might have put the pink in his cheeks, but he didn't think it was responsible for the pleased curl of his lips.
Mal glanced over as the dark woman went to the bar for their fourth round. Wash was toeing the line, lower lip between his teeth, squinting against his inebriation as he took aim at the dartboard. Sullivan suddenly slid in front of him, and he took a step back, brows lifting. Her right hand came up, the steel curve hooking the V at the throat of Wash's suit. He froze, eyes roaming over her face, and her hand lifted, metal caressing his cheekbone. His lips parted, and the color in his face rose. The dark woman had caught the interaction, and she moved away from the bar, the shots she'd ordered still on its wooden surface. Her hands dropped, one onto Sullivan's hip and the other on Wash's. Then the pilot's eyes flicked toward Mal.
In that instant it came to Mal that Wash had always been rather reticent about his sexual proclivities, and that maybe he was overly-conscious of his captain being in the same room as him and his potential bed-partners. Mal stood, saying, “Do please excuse me, gentlemen. Time for me to say good-night.” As he moved toward the door, he nodded to the other's courteous farewells. Just over the threshold, he cast a glance over his shoulder.
And Wash was backing away from the women, face flushed full of lust and of apology as he looked back and forth between them and his captain on the porch. Whatever he was saying had Sullivan's brows arching up and her friend's going down, and when he turned away, Sullivan shook her head, laughing. The dark woman simply rolled her eyes, putting a fist on one hip, the very picture of feminine exasperation.
And the man was rattling on as he came through the door, a little uncertain with his consonants, “Hey, Mal, almos' missed ya leavin'. Ya shoulda caught my eye- Whoops!” He stumbled, missing the half-step down to the porch in the dark. Mal caught him, one hand on his bicep, the other in the middle of his back, steadying him as he untangled his feet. The amount of tension he found in the man, as drunk as he was, astonished him, taut muscles practically quivering under his hands.
He made himself smile, to keep his tone easy. “Hey, now, Wash. Looked like you was havin' fun, made yourself some friends. Ain't breakin' curfew.” He chuckled deliberately. “Fact is, we got no curfew t' break. Stay out late as you please.” He pushed on Wash's shoulder, turning him back around to the bar's door. “Hell, don't need to see y' shipside 'til after breakfast. Lunch even.” Maybe even dinnertime, but he didn't say so aloud. Didn't want to give even the slightest hint Wash wasn't welcome on the ship. If he did have that land-craziness Zoe'd mentioned, that notion might just make him worse.
Wash pulled away from him, out of his grip, his unsteady feet pivoting him to point in Serenity's direction. “Nah, I'm good, I'm fine, had enough,” he insisted, shuffling forward, finding the edge of the porch in the dark and stepping cautiously down onto the street. “More than more 'n enough.” He giggled as he discovered just how loose-jointed his knees were, and repeated, “More 'n more 'n enough.”
Mal frowned after him. As strongly as he believed it would be in the best interests of all concerned, including Sullivan and her friend, he reckoned ordering the man to get back into that bar, to go home with those women, and to get well and thoroughly laid would be overstepping the line of his captainy authority. Sighing, he took off after his pilot, to walk beside him, an occasional touch on Wash's elbow keeping his weaving steps on track.
Mal was relieved they didn't run across Zoe on their way through the ship toward their bunks. Wash didn't need yet another black mark in her book. When Mal slowed at the hatch to his pilot's bunk, Wash kept going, past it, to haul himself up the stairs to the bridge, grip tight on the handrails.
“Wash,” Mal called after him. “Time to call it a night.”
“'S okay,” he replied, speaking to his feet as he set each one over-precisely on each step. “Jus- just gonna check. All the systems. Gotta check 'em.”
Mal let him go. Knew he'd probably spend the night in his chair again. Didn't hurt anything, though, and maybe the drink would help him rest easy.
~*~
Jong mai duh mai. - Sow wheat, receive wheat.
lao chien - con man
On to Day Seven...
Characters: Mal, Wash, Zoe, Bester, Kaylee.
Word count: ~5200
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 6~
Just as Mal climbed out of the hatch to his bunk that morning, Wash was coming down from the bridge. He stopped a couple steps from the bottom when Mal turned to look at him. He'd clearly spent the night in his chair again. And nothing about his chaotic hair or the dark smudges under his eyes suggested he'd slept well. After a few moments, Wash descended the rest of the way, ducking his head as he murmured, “Morning, Captain,” then triggered open the hatch to his bunk to disappear below.
“Mornin',” Mal returned as the hatch hissed shut. Pursing his lips, he went to get breakfast. And again, it was disconcerting to find Bester up before him, already at the table, gnawing on a protein bar. Zoe there too made it somewhat less irregular, though the glance she gave him was more than usually jaundiced. He did note that her breakfast of choice was leftovers from last night, chopped up and refried in a rainbow confetti. As he walked by the table, nodding his good-mornings, he caught a whiff of fermented fish sauce. Hand to heaven, he never had been able to fathom why Zoe'd put that on her food voluntarily, at any time, let alone first thing in the morning. 'Course she'd never come to understand his appreciation for the mighty habanero. He reckoned it was all about what was served at the family table, growing up. Five minutes later, as he was bringing his plate and mug to the table, she was rising, a pointed look goading Bester to his feet as well.
“Thinkin' of heading into town,” Zoe stated. She jerked her chin toward the mechanic. “Says he needs some zero gauge stranded wire. Thought I could take him over to the junk yard, see if they got what we need.”
“Didn't we trade off a box of doohickies for some wiring with Monty a month or so back?” Mal queried, pulling out his chair and sitting down.
“Yeah,” Bester replied with a grimace, “but that's all three gauge or higher. Could burn out when I run the power levels we need through that.”
“Runnin' power suggests progress. We got progress, Bester?”
“Some, Mal,” he replied, nodding and grinning. “Shit load easier t' get work done, without Washburne hangin' around.”
“So we should be flyin' any time now. Like today.”
“Aw, don't know about that, Mal.” Bester, still grinning, gave a floppy shrug. “Haven't yet tracked down the glitch with the thrusters, and there's something dicey with one of the grav boots, don't know what. Prob'ly 'nother day, at least.”
“Y' do know, Bester, that we ain't bein' paid for these days we're stuck in the dirt.”
“Sure, Mal, I know that. But what can y' do?”
“Can get my engines fixed. That's what I pay you for. Provided, of course, that I get paid.”
“Yeah, but.” Bester shrugged again.
Mal contemplated shooting his mechanic. Just a little bit, mind you, maybe take off a toe, or graze some large, fleshy area, on the off-chance that might inspire a greater dedication to his task. Zoe must have seen something in his face, because she tugged Bester's coffee cup from his hand, saying, “I'll get this. You go get the mule an' trailer ready.”
Blissfully ignorant of the tenor of his captain's wayward thoughts, Bester grinned and said, “Shiny!” then sauntered aft.
Zoe gave Mal a repressive look, and he sighed theatrically, complaining, “Y' never let me have any fun.” She shook her head, then took the dishes into the kitchen, where she had them washed, dried, and put away before he had half his coffee drunk. As she headed below to join Bester, Mal said, “Looks likely we'll be around to get the other half of our protein order.”
Zoe nodded, understanding his meaning, that their purse, rapidly approaching empty, needed to cover that deal first. “I'll put off buyin' that gold-plated toilet seat for the main head then.”
“Appreciate that. 'Sides, I been thinkin', metal plating, even gold, it could get mighty cold. Kinda off-puttin', even alarmin', 'specially in the middle of the night.”
She gave him one of her rare grins, and said over her shoulder as she stepped through the hatch, “Guess maybe we wanna rethink that particular upgrade.”
“Guess we do,” he replied, smiling broadly, his poker face breaking under the impact of her sudden impish warmth. He realized that, yeah, maybe they were pushing the limits of their schedule, in hitting Paquin. But still, the deal they were getting on the protein would keep them out of the red and fed, even if the Paquin meet fell through.
Wash stepped down into the galley as Mal spooned the last of his breakfast into his mouth. And Mal could see the man had made a real attempt to collect himself. His cheeks and chin were fresh shaved, his mustache trimmed and his damp hair combed ruthlessly into place. He had on the same flightsuit he'd put on after showering yesterday, but then, Mal'd been wearing the same trousers for a week and the same shirt for a couple days. He did have on clean underwear and socks, and he supposed it was the same for Wash, although he wasn't about to inquire. And when the man came up to him, all he could smell was shaving cream mixed with a hint of the sandalwood scent of the brand of cleansing gel Wash preferred.
Wash took a deep breath, then said, “About dinner last night, Capt'n. I'm sorry. I got a little carried away.” And the guy's voice was steady and normal. But his shoulders were up and stiff, and he had an anxious tightness around his eyes.
Mal nodded slowly. “That y' did. But I guess I shoulda known better than to ask an imaginative man such as yourself to spend three hours workin' on a protein loaf.” He leaned back, rocking his chair onto its hind legs, grinning. “Shoulda known the results would be... creative.”
The tense lines of Wash's shoulders relaxed, and he laughed, Mal thought more out of relief than amusement. Wondered if maybe the man had been frettin' that he was gonna have some kinda sanction laid down on him.
Grinning, Wash went on to say, “Guess it was a good thing I didn't go with my first impulse, then, a three dimensional model of the Parliament Building on Londinum.”
“I thank you for your restraint. Don't know as I could've stomached that for dinner, let alone breakfast leftovers.” He tilted his head toward his empty plate.
“Could see where that might be hard to swallow.” Then his smile faded a bit, his eyes shifting toward but not quite getting to pointing at the hatch aft to the engine room. He said, sounding a bit tentative, “I thought I'd rerun the deep diagnostic on the helm programming. But only if we're going to be grounded for another day. And if you don't want me working on-” He gestured aft, toward the engine room, a twitching flick of both hands.
“You go ahead an' run that diagnostic, Wash,” Mal replied lightly, not allowing any of his own frustration to color his tone. “Looks like y' got the time.”
The man's shoulders sagged, but for just a moment. Then he pulled them back, and with a nod, said, “I'll get right on it.” He pivoted, heading forward.
“Wash.”
He turned back. “Yeah, Captain?”
“Don't be thinkin' y' can avoid last night's leftovers. Get back here an' eat somethin'.” Mal pointed at the kitchen. The guy opened his mouth, maybe to protest that he wasn't hungry, which was as may be. But a body needed fueling, and Mal wasn't about to let Wash neglect that. Plus, it was only right that he take on his fair share of the remaining casserole.
Perceiving that arguing would be useless by the steadiness of Mal's pointing finger, Wash closed his mouth, smiling ruefully. “Jong mai duh mai. Or in my case, sow protein loaf, reap protein loaf.”
Zoe and Bester were back before noon, ten meters of zero gauge wiring on the mule's trailer. Zoe immediately hustled Bester and the cable into the engine room, and Bester's sulkiness and the tight set of Zoe's lips suggested to Mal that their trip into town hadn't run completely smooth. But Zoe offered no particulars, so he didn't press. He spent the rest of his day cycling slowly between the cargo bay, the engine room, the bridge, and then around again. Being in the bay was fine, just him and Zoe working on any one of the many tasks running a freight vessel imposed upon them. The engine room was aggravating, 'cuz while it always seemed like meaningful activity was taking place - panels open, tools being loudly used, more grease streaking Bester's bare torso with every visit - nothing actually ever changed. It was always, “Nope, sorry, Mal,” followed by a stream of tech talk Mal could make neither head nor tail of.
Heading up to the bridge was equally disheartening. Not 'cuz he thought Wash wasn't doing his bit, 'cuz he'd come up the stairs, hearing the sound of Wash's fingers tappity-tapping on the navsats keyboard, and when he got there, lines of numbers and symbols would be reeling upward on the screen, which, honestly, he understood even less than Bester's spiels. But every time he entered the bridge, Wash's eyes - wide, hopeful, increasingly bloodshot - would swing to him, and he'd have to shake his head and say, “Nothin' new.” And the man would duck his head a moment, then nod, before turning away, nimble fingers again flicking over his board.
Then, about an hour before dinner, on another restless round through his ship, Mal came up into the galley from the bay, hoping for but not expecting a positive report from Bester. And there he found Wash, one shoulder on the edge of the aft hatch to the corridor to the engine room, leaning there, head bowed, expression blank yet somehow intent. As though he were listening with absolute concentration. He was so focused, in fact, that Mal was just a pace away before Wash noticed him, starting upright, chagrin twitching over his face before he composed himself, trying for a casual, “Hey, Captain.”
“What's up, Wash?”
“I- Well, I've finished running the diagnostic. And I just thought maybe I should... It's awful quiet back there, Mal. Maybe I should go back and give him a hand.”
“Nope,” Mal replied, making a sudden decision.
“I won't say a word, I promise,” Wash said in a rush, eyes wide and earnest. “I'll just pass him tools. Run errands.” Smiling weakly, he tried for a quip. “Mop his sweaty brow.”
“Nope.” Mal set a hand on his shoulder, steering him toward the stairs to the cargo bay and the main hatch. “You're comin' with me.”
“Well, where are we going?”
“Anywhere not here.”
By the time the two of them had reached the cargo bay, Mal had a plan, of which he informed Zoe as they passed by her on the way to the front hatch.
“We're gonna grab a bite an' a couple beers in town, Zoe. Wash's been starin' at his screen all day, looks to be goin' cross-eyed, and he ain't had any downtime as yet.”
“Yes, sir,” she replied, giving him a neutral nod before going back to her manifest clipboard.
Wash slowed for a few paces, looking back at her, then trotted forward, catching up with Mal on the ramp. “Maybe Zoe'd like to come. She deserves a break, too.”
Mal shook his head, striding on. “Need her to keep an eye on Bester.”
Wash glanced over his shoulder, brows knit as he nibbled on the corner of his mustache, clearly torn between his consideration of Zoe and his need for Bester to complete his repairs. Need won and he silently matched his gait to Mal's. He did, however, look back every tenth step or so, a tiny frown compressing his face.
A few hundred meters down the path laid by the two trucks, Mal finally stated, “She ain't goin' anywhere without you.”
“What?” Wash stared at him, eyes round and a little spooked looking.
“Serenity. She needs you to get back aloft. And 'sides, ain't no way in hell she'll leave without me.”
Wash blinked a couple times, then smiled, saying, “True that.” He cast a final glance back, then turned his face forward, murmuring so low that Mal barely caught it, “That's true.”
Took about twenty minutes to walk to town, and they could've taken the mule. But Mal figured the exercise would do them both good, and besides, it saved on petrol. Mal was prepared to go along with Wash's love of chat as they strolled, only in part to give the guy an outlet. Truth was, Wash listened as well as he talked, and Mal did enjoy spinning a tale. Almost as much as Zoe did, if you could just get her started, although that was no easy task.
But Wash hiked along in silence, following his two long shadows sliding along ahead of him, one cast by the far off Sun, the other by Wyoming's principal, Heinlein, both sinking below the horizon behind them. Was kinda peaceful and companionable, both looking up together to follow the line of cawing crows winging toward their evening perches, or swiveling their heads to listen to the first sweet, tentative warbles of some night bird. Wash did jump to one side when they startled a rabbit from between the field's furrows, yellow dust spurting from beneath its hind feet as it darted off. Mal didn't chuckle over Wash's alarm until he did first.
Their feet found the road, dirt most of the way, turning to asphalt just in time to be the town's main street. Though the shops were dark and there were no street lamps, Heinlein, even at just a sinking razor thin blue crescent, cast enough light for them to easily see their way. The windows of the sheriff's office glowed a warm gold, as did the windows and open door of the bar. Mal led Wash to the latter establishment, onto the porch, and then up the half-step inside. He made a quick scan of the room on his way to the bar. He figured maybe they'd arrived ahead of most of the evening's business, as the only patrons were the three raggedy men at their usual corner table.
“Evenin', ma'am.” Mal nodded politely to the watchful barkeep before turning to his pilot. “A pale good by you, Wash? Can attest that it's quite fine.”
Wash turned his gaze, which had been roaming curiously about the place, to the woman behind the bar to assert, “A pale is perfect.”
“Two pints, then. And are y' servin' dinner?”
“Yep. Chashao bao. Steamed cabbage on the side.”
Wash made a little noise through his nose, might have been a whimper, which Mal interpreted as thumbs up for the special. “Two of those as well, please.”
Mal couldn't watch Wash eat his dinner - fluffy dumplings steamed around sweet and spicy pork - 'cuz his ecstatic expression was too close to what a fella's sex face might be like. And anyway, couldn't be too sure about the lines his own face were set in, so probably best just keep his eyes on his own plate and enjoy.
He came up for air about fifteen minutes later to the sound of Wash's sated sigh and the click of his chopsticks as he set them across his plate. As he watched, his pilot drained the last inch from his glass, then set it down with a gentle, reverent burp.
“Okay, then?” Mal asked.
“Yep.”
“Round of darts?”
“Sure.”
Mal nodded at the barkeep's inquiring lift of one brow, and he and Wash waited a moment as she refilled their pints. Carefully picking up the brimming glasses, they abandoned their spots at the bar to saunter over to the dartboard. Mal was gonna propose that they play for coin but the tight cluster Wash threw while testing his darts' balance quickly stifled that notion. Hell, he was already paying - well, Serenity's slush fund was - for the guy's drinks and dinner. No need to indulge him further.
More customers wandered in as they played, and while Mal's eyes flicked to the door at each newcomer's entry, it was more reflex than active wariness. Wyoming might be down on its luck and Rim, but it was country-Rim, not crazy-Rim. He nodded at Mr. Song upon his arrival, and the man returned his nod solemnly before picking up a drink at the bar, then joining two men at one of the largish round tables. Clearly father and his barely adult son, the elder wore grease-stained mechanic's coveralls, while the younger sported a puffy black eye. That eye was turned rather sullenly upon his bottle of orange pop.
Mal exchanged nods with Sheriff Huan as well when he came through the door a short while later. The lawman left it at that, though, going on to collect himself a pint at the bar, and then joining Song and the two other men at their table. He apparently said something joshing to the youngster, 'cuz that individual ducked his head, grinning sheepishly, while to two older men chuckled.
While Wash was tugging his darts free, Mal tilted the last swallow of his ale into his mouth, congratulating himself again for not suggesting they play for money. It had become a forgone conclusion that Wash was gonna whip him pretty damn soundly, unless the man suddenly lost all feeling in both hands ('cuz he'd been alternating between his left and his right, with no discernible loss of accuracy) or went abruptly blind. Wash turned away from the board, and Mal held up his empty, already heading toward the bar, and Wash gave him a little nod. Mal came back with two pints, setting the second down next to the half-full one Wash was still working on.
The man eyed it askance, saying, “I do believe you are attempting to affect the outcome of this game by devious means, Captain.”
“Hell, no, ain't devious. Just flat out-right aimin' to get you drunk. Looks like the only chance I got to win.”
“Aw, no point. I just look at the two dartboards, calculate the geometric mean between the areas I wanna hit, and let fly. Works every time.”
“Don't make me regret hirin' you on.”
Wash pursed his lips, knotting his brows in mock-concern. “Could try throwin' with my eyes closed.”
“Don't reckon that'd help.”
“Probably not,” Wash admitted, ducking his head modestly.
“So drink your beer.”
“Aye aye, Captain.”
Wash was throwing when Sullivan walked in, and this time Mal did more than nod. He smiled outright, lifting his hand in greeting, and she smiled right back as she headed straight for them. Wash tossed his last dart, glancing around to see who Mal had been waving to. The man's face lit right up when he saw her, and Mal let himself feel the smugness of a scheme well schemed. He took Sullivan's offered hand, very glad to see her, saying, “Ms. Sullivan,” in response to her “Captain Reynolds.” She then took Wash's hand, holding onto it a bit and saying, “Wash” with a deeper smile than she'd offered Mal.
“Hey, Lara,” he replied, and he was clearly happier to see her than even Mal was.
“Have to say I'm mighty pleased to see you, Ms. Sullivan,” Mal declared, affecting exaggerated relief. “Seems my pilot here has no sense of propriety, and is thumpin' me soundly at this here game. Care to save my captainy pride, and take over for me?” He tilted his head toward the table Huan and Song occupied. “There's some folks over there I'd like to have a word with.”
“Glad to be of service, Cap'n.”
“Thank you kindly. I'm gonna get this topped off. Can I get you somethin'?”
“A glass of Ngkapei would be welcome.”
“Comin' up.” He looked to his pilot. “Wash?”
Wash's eyes slid to his barely sipped third pint. “No, I'm good.”
Mal fetched Sullivan her wine, then committed a strategic withdrawal, refilled pint in hand, approaching the sheriff's table. Its occupants looked up at his arrival, and he offered them a genial smile.
“Sheriff Huan, Mr. Song. Good evenin'.”
“Evening, Captain Reynolds. Care to sit with us?”
“Would be a pleasure, Sheriff.” He pulled back a free chair, inclining his head toward Song, then turning his attention to the men he didn't yet know.
The sheriff, playing host, said, “You know Mr. Song. Allow me to introduce Leland Frye.” The older man offered his hand, and Mal took it, noting the heavy calluses and the careful power of his grip. Probably in his mid-forties, his genial face was already heavily lined. “And his son, Caspar.” Mal offered his hand to the younger Frye, who took it, looking surprised but gratified to be included in this adult male ritual. In his late teens, his face was shaped in the same genial roundness as his pa's, but he was already taller, and far leaner, than his old man. His left eye sported a fine shiner, aging to lovely shades of green and yellow around the edges. Remembering a scrap of conversation from the first time he'd met Huan, Mal gathered that this was the “young Frye” who he'd had cooling in lock-up. The sheriff went on, “Leland owns our machine shop and sees to our salvage yard across from the spaceport.” He tilted a hand toward Mal. “Gentlemen, this is Captain Malcolm Reynolds, off the ship set in Duo's field.”
The Fryes nodded their greetings, then the elder asked, pointing with his chin toward Wash, “That your man, Captain Reynolds?”
Mal glanced across the room, where Wash was watching Sullivan take careful aim at the dartboard. “My pilot, yeah. Goes by Wash.”
The younger Frye interjected, “He ain't the fella come by the yard today, Pop.”
“That woulda been my mechanic, Bester,” Mal said, now remembering that Zoe hadn't been perfectly cheerful when the two of them had returned to Serenity that morning. “Came into town with my first mate, Zoe Alleyne, this morning. Was there a problem?”
The youngster looked over at him, and he took on the expression that lots of men did, when talking about Zoe, a mix of caution and masculine appreciation. “No. No, sir, no problem. That first mate of yours, Miss Alleyne? Don't imagine many problems dare come up, when she's around.”
Mal chuckled. “You got that right.” And he proceeded to tell them a little tale, one to break the ice, one set in the last few months, about Zoe getting the better of a slaving lao chien off Bernadette. Wasn't the best Zoe-tale he had, but he didn't tell war stories if he wasn't absolutely sure where all his audience stood on that Event. Plus, with his best Zoe-stories, he had to make sure those listening had strong stomachs and weren't easily shocked. He got an appreciative laugh, 'cuz everyone this far out liked a story about putting one over a Core suit, and then was able to ease back in his chair and just listen to the other men talk, nodding and adding supportive grunts.
The bar continued to have in-coming and out-going, and Mal's eyes flicked automatically toward every movement. The entrance of a woman, vaguely familiar, engaged his eye. She paused a moment, scanning the room, and that gave him enough time to recollect where he'd seen her before. At lunch, the first day they'd been down, sitting across from Sullivan. Dark, lean, even wiry, about a head shorter than Lara. But she had that same competent, don't-get-in-my-face air about her, and Mal was pretty gorram sure she'd seen action of the fire-fight kind. She spotted Sullivan immediately, playing darts with Wash. The wary set of her features eased, her mouth curving into a joy-filled smile, and she made right for them.
Now, Mal had to admit to a little slump to his morale right then. 'Cuz truth be told, he'd been kinda counting on Sullivan taking Wash home and having her way with him. Just in the interest of knocking the man's own morale up a notch and untangling some nerves that had become a little too tightly wound. The addition of a third-wheel sort of friend made that hope of his a little more problematic.
And then Mal felt his brows go up as the situation got just a little more awkward. The dark woman came up, to stand right next to Sullivan, one hand coming up to rest possessively in the small of her back. She said something, looking Wash right in the eye, and Sullivan became very still. For a moment, so did Wash. But then he grinned, his face full of mischief as he replied, and after a second both women laughed, the dark woman tossing her head back in delight. Her hand dropped off of Sullivan's waist and she went to the bar to place an order. In moments, she came back to the dart game, three double shots of whiskey held in the triangle of her two hands.
Mal tried to keep the next hour's worth of attention fixed on the men around the table with him and their conversation. But he had to admit Wash's dart game was a tad more interesting than rambling speculations about the success of next season's soybean crop. Not that he could hear a word of what the man and the two women exchanged among themselves. But there was a lot of shared laughter, and by their second round of whiskey the women's hands had gotten a little wandersome, lighting down casually on Wash's shoulders, back, hips. His own hands were behaving themselves perfectly, touching only his darts and shot glass. But Mal didn't think he minded. All the alcohol might have put the pink in his cheeks, but he didn't think it was responsible for the pleased curl of his lips.
Mal glanced over as the dark woman went to the bar for their fourth round. Wash was toeing the line, lower lip between his teeth, squinting against his inebriation as he took aim at the dartboard. Sullivan suddenly slid in front of him, and he took a step back, brows lifting. Her right hand came up, the steel curve hooking the V at the throat of Wash's suit. He froze, eyes roaming over her face, and her hand lifted, metal caressing his cheekbone. His lips parted, and the color in his face rose. The dark woman had caught the interaction, and she moved away from the bar, the shots she'd ordered still on its wooden surface. Her hands dropped, one onto Sullivan's hip and the other on Wash's. Then the pilot's eyes flicked toward Mal.
In that instant it came to Mal that Wash had always been rather reticent about his sexual proclivities, and that maybe he was overly-conscious of his captain being in the same room as him and his potential bed-partners. Mal stood, saying, “Do please excuse me, gentlemen. Time for me to say good-night.” As he moved toward the door, he nodded to the other's courteous farewells. Just over the threshold, he cast a glance over his shoulder.
And Wash was backing away from the women, face flushed full of lust and of apology as he looked back and forth between them and his captain on the porch. Whatever he was saying had Sullivan's brows arching up and her friend's going down, and when he turned away, Sullivan shook her head, laughing. The dark woman simply rolled her eyes, putting a fist on one hip, the very picture of feminine exasperation.
And the man was rattling on as he came through the door, a little uncertain with his consonants, “Hey, Mal, almos' missed ya leavin'. Ya shoulda caught my eye- Whoops!” He stumbled, missing the half-step down to the porch in the dark. Mal caught him, one hand on his bicep, the other in the middle of his back, steadying him as he untangled his feet. The amount of tension he found in the man, as drunk as he was, astonished him, taut muscles practically quivering under his hands.
He made himself smile, to keep his tone easy. “Hey, now, Wash. Looked like you was havin' fun, made yourself some friends. Ain't breakin' curfew.” He chuckled deliberately. “Fact is, we got no curfew t' break. Stay out late as you please.” He pushed on Wash's shoulder, turning him back around to the bar's door. “Hell, don't need to see y' shipside 'til after breakfast. Lunch even.” Maybe even dinnertime, but he didn't say so aloud. Didn't want to give even the slightest hint Wash wasn't welcome on the ship. If he did have that land-craziness Zoe'd mentioned, that notion might just make him worse.
Wash pulled away from him, out of his grip, his unsteady feet pivoting him to point in Serenity's direction. “Nah, I'm good, I'm fine, had enough,” he insisted, shuffling forward, finding the edge of the porch in the dark and stepping cautiously down onto the street. “More than more 'n enough.” He giggled as he discovered just how loose-jointed his knees were, and repeated, “More 'n more 'n enough.”
Mal frowned after him. As strongly as he believed it would be in the best interests of all concerned, including Sullivan and her friend, he reckoned ordering the man to get back into that bar, to go home with those women, and to get well and thoroughly laid would be overstepping the line of his captainy authority. Sighing, he took off after his pilot, to walk beside him, an occasional touch on Wash's elbow keeping his weaving steps on track.
Mal was relieved they didn't run across Zoe on their way through the ship toward their bunks. Wash didn't need yet another black mark in her book. When Mal slowed at the hatch to his pilot's bunk, Wash kept going, past it, to haul himself up the stairs to the bridge, grip tight on the handrails.
“Wash,” Mal called after him. “Time to call it a night.”
“'S okay,” he replied, speaking to his feet as he set each one over-precisely on each step. “Jus- just gonna check. All the systems. Gotta check 'em.”
Mal let him go. Knew he'd probably spend the night in his chair again. Didn't hurt anything, though, and maybe the drink would help him rest easy.
~*~
Jong mai duh mai. - Sow wheat, receive wheat.
lao chien - con man
On to Day Seven...