Fic: Sticking Point (8/9)
Rating: PG13
Characters: Mal, Wash, Zoe, Bester, Kaylee.
Word count: ~3300
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 8~
Mal refrained from taking Wash off-ship the next day, even though that put the man at risk of a Bester-swung spanner upside his head. Renshaw still prowled the town, and Mal couldn't shake the memory of the yearning looks Wash had cast in the Golden Dawn's direction. They had a couple crates of scrap parts they'd picked up cheap a few worlds back, on the chance some of those parts could be of use to Serenity or cannibalized to be so. So Mal set Wash to sorting those parts, into bits he judged could be of use and those he knew wouldn't be. He accepted that task with a single, tight-lipped nod, and Mal knew Wash full well knew that he was being given busy-work to keep him out of temptation's path.
A couple hours later, making a patrol sweep through Serenity in the interest of letting his crew know he was keeping an eye on their progress - such as it was - he made his way back down the steps to the cargo bay. He felt a little bump of anxiety when he noticed the two scrap crates open and empty, most of the scrap heaped up beside them. A drop cloth spread out on the deck had an assortment of bits and pieces laid out in two orderly rows in front of them. But Wash was nowhere to be seen.
The sound of clanking chains above him drew his gaze upward, where he spotted his pilot, clinging like a monkey to the access grid on the cargo bay's ceiling. He opened his mouth, preparing to inquire - loudly - just what in the sphincters of hell he was about. Then snapped his mouth shut, pressing his lips together, supremely irritated. His shouting could startle the man, and while a tumble eight meters to the metal deck below would solve Mal's quandary over which of his crewmen to do away with, he'd then be without a pilot. Although at this point in time it was beginning to appear any future need of a pilot was becoming moot.
He contented himself with glaring up at the man, arms crossed over his chest. Sure enough, Wash soon felt the weight of his stare, turning his head to peer down at him.
“Captain!” he yelled delightedly. “I just finished it. Look!” He swung off the grid onto the catwalk, then hit the controls for the ceiling winch. The electric motor whined into action, reeling out a length of chain, at the end of which hung a large metal ring. Wash cut the winch when that ring was suspended about four meters above the deck. Then he clattered down the access steps and across the bay's deck to where Mal stood. His manic grin crumbled a bit at the sight of Mal's irritated scowl.
“Does my ship need that part?”
“Huh?” Wash glanced up at the dangling ring, then back to Mal, bloodshot eyes wide and earnest. “Oh, no, no, Captain. It's a secondary locking ring for the landing hydraulics on a C-class heavy transport. We've got no use for it.” Blinking anxiously, he added hastily, “But I can put it back with the scrap if you want.”
“Well, if we don't need it. But-” He waved a hand at Wash's work. “Whatcha got goin' here? Some kinda modern art?”
Wash stared at him a moment, then barked out a short laugh. “Ha! No, it's-” He broke off, darting away from Mal to one side of the bay, stooping to scoop up a large silver-gray ball from the deck, then twisting to leap straight up, lofting it off his fingertips in one smooth movement. It arced though the air, right through the center of the ring. Wash crowed, “Score!” then dashed after the ball to retrieve it, bouncing it on the deck as he trotted back to Mal.
“It's hoop ball,” he declared, grinning a very pleased grin. He offered the ball to Mal. “Wanna play?”
Mal opened his mouth to say no, he didn't have the time. But, truth be told, he did, as he his own self was about as necessary and useful to the running of his downed ship at the moment as Wash was. And if he could help the guy loosen up some while keeping him on-board and out from under Renshaw's predatory eye, well, it would be the captainy thing to do.
So he took the ball, saying, “Ain't never played before.” Which was true, baseball being the sport the town and country kids on Shadow organized themselves into whenever schooling and chores allowed.
“I'll go easy on ya,” Wash replied, his grin taking on a wicked slant.
An hour later, he took a moment to huff and puff some air back into his lungs, flapping the front of his shirt in the hope of encouraging a breeze. He glanced up and caught sight of Zoe on an upper catwalk, leaning on the railing as she watched. Wash, flushed, the top of his flightsuit shucked and tied off around his waist by its sleeves, tank sweat soaked, flipped the ball to Mal as he trotted past him. “Your go,” he panted. “Score's nine/one.”
Mal got control of the ball, glanced back up, and found the catwalk now empty. Too bad. Was pretty sure this was Zoe's kinda game. And he sure coulda used the back-up. He charged Wash, now guarding the hoop, having found he was more likely to score by being extremely aggressive. Plus, Wash seemed to have more fun when a little wrestling was added to the play.
Zoe called them up for dinner, and they sat down in their sweaty kit, as Bester, looking more combed and polished than usual, cast superior looks in their direction. After all that exercise, Mal would have figured Wash would've worked up an appetite. But he just picked at his food, shaping it into a variety of patterns on his plate. Mal noticed Zoe was watching the man carefully, a little crease between her brows. It was reassuring to see that concern in her, however out of character. Less reassuring and even more out of character was the fact that Wash seemed completely oblivious to her regard.
Wash did glance up, peering out from under his brows, when Bester, rising with his empty dishes, breezily announced he was heading into town for the evening. He said nothing, though, his face completely still as his eyes followed the man as he dropped his plate and glass into the sink before heading for the gangway off the forward corridor, heading down to the cargo bay and the main exit. All the while, Mal was arguing with himself as to whether he should call the man back, deny him leave until he got his work done, or whether it was better to have Serenity free of him for a few hours, especially in the sulky state he'd be in if his liberty were curtailed. What decided him was the tiny fluttering tic under Wash's right eye. Never seen that before. Decided the further apart his crewmen were from one another, the better, and he let Bester go.
Was Wash's stint at kitchen duty, and while he washed, dried, and put away, Mal and Zoe settled into the lounge, pulling out the star-checker set. Finished up their first game just as Wash put away the casserole dish then headed forward, Mal amiably cussing Zoe out for her more rapid than usual win. She beat him most times, but it didn't help that he'd been completely indifferent to his marbles' positions as he'd watched his pilot out of the corner of his eye. He didn't hear the clank-hiss of a bunk hatch opening, so he figured Wash had, just as he had in recent evenings, gone on up to the bridge.
Second game he was doing better, actually making her work for it a bit. Until fifteen minutes in, when he heard footsteps in the forward corridor, coming toward the galley. 'Course it was Wash, his gorram weird shing so shoes padding soft on the deck. Soft, but lots quicker than he usually moved. And he turned before he reached the galley. Mal realized Wash had gone through the starboard hatch to head down the gangway Bester had taken earlier, down into the cargo bay. Which led to out. And it came to Mal that while Serenity's engine might be off-line, her communication systems were, thanks to Wash, in peak working order. And he reckoned there weren't nothing wrong with the Golden Dawn's Cortex connections.
He glanced up at Zoe and she met his eyes with a little nod, acknowledging she had, of course, heard and followed the man's trajectory. The perfect thing about Zoe was he didn't have to pretend. He didn't have to pretend that he wasn't worried that his pilot might have just decided to jump ship, and was now heading into town, toward that spaceport hosting that functioning ship with a captain who had avidly courted that same said pilot for a month before Mal had won him. And who had shamelessly reengaged in that courtship just the night before. So, not having to pretend, he simply stood up, abandoning the game without explanation, heading for the cargo bay gangway, Zoe pretty much right on his heels.
Wash had made it into the cargo bay, yes, and the front hatch gaped open, letting in the earth-scented nighttime air. But there he had stopped. He stood under the hoop he'd suspended, spinning the silver ball between his hands. Mal made himself step soft as he came down onto the upper catwalk, and of course Zoe, just behind him, was as silent as always. So their presence didn't distract Wash as he backed out from under the hoop some few paces, then set himself loping back toward it, bouncing the ball on the deck, one, two, three times, before lofting it through the hoop with his right hand. He kept jogging, chasing after the ball, catching it up, turning, then bouncing the ball one, two, three times before lofting the ball with his left hand, through the hoop, jogging without a pause after it, fetching the ball, turning, bouncing one, two, three, tossing with the right, scoring, jogging, fetching, turning, bouncing one, two, three, tossing with the left...
Five minutes, Mal watched, then another ten. And the unrelenting sameness of the pattern Wash had set himself on drew up an uneasiness in him. 'Cause he'd seen that same kind of mindless, patterned movement somewhere before. It took him another few minutes of watching for the memory to surface. He'd been about six, his mama had taken him into town, a day off, 'cuz a carnival ship had touched down. Been games and rides and shows. Including a tiny exhibit of critters not established on Shadow. There's been a cat-like beast, not any bigger than their tom back at home, but with huge tufted ears, big old paws and not much of a tail, in a cage about two by three meters. And Wash was like that cat. Pace, pace, pace to one end of the cage, rear up and push off the wall with one paw, twisting around to pace, pace, pace to the other side, rear up, push off with the other paw, pivoting right around, mouth gaped just a bit with its panting, pink tongue just showing, eyes unfocused, unseeing. Again and again and again. A strip of the metal cage bottom and the places where that cat's paws had landed on its walls worn shiny.
“Gorram it,” Mal muttered, then turning around, pushed past Zoe to head back to the galley. Kinda expected her to follow right after, but he'd been seated in the lounge, rolling marbles not in play from hand to hand for a few minutes before she came in. She sat back down, and moved the next marble on the board, blocking the magnificent run he'd maneuvered for. And he didn't even care. He thrashed his way through that game and through the next hour, losing both, the sound of that ball spanking against the deck echoing up faintly from the bay into the galley. He'd gotten so caught up in the rhythm of it, that when it stopped suddenly, his head came up, Zoe's movement mirroring his own. They paused, listening to the silence.
Mal had no hold on Wash. Guy wasn't a soldier, hadn't sworn loyalty to a cause and to obey all lawful orders. And hell, at this point Mal had no cause, and a goodly number of his orders weren't lawful. They had a deal, yeah, had shook on it when Wash came aboard. Wash would fly Mal's ship in return for a top pilot's cut of their jobs' profits. But as they weren't currently workin', there weren't currently any profits and hence, no cut. On top of that, and probably more significantly as far as Wash was concerned, they weren't flyin'. And, just as Mal had the power to toss Wash off his boat for any or no reason at all, Wash had the freedom to walk. At any time.
After a moment, a very long moment, they heard the pad of Wash's slow footsteps coming up the steps and into the corridor. Could have gone forward, toward his bunk or the bridge. But instead he turned aft, coming carefully down the steps into the galley. His hair stood in sweaty spikes around his head, his tank was drenched, and his eyes had the glazed look of someone who had worked himself into a state of unthinking numbness. Mal watched him, of course, Zoe too, but casually, and when he said nothing, they kept their heads down over their game board.
The man went straight for the kitchen, filling and drinking two glasses of water from the tap. He paused a moment, breathing hard, then drained a third glass more slowly. He washed the glass, dried it and put it away. Then he went forward. Again, Mal didn't hear the sound of a bunk hatch opening, so he figured Wash had gone all the way up to the bridge. Back to that fully operational Cortex system.
He stood, and Zoe said, “Good night, sir.” He glanced at her, hearing more meaning behind those words than usual. She gave him a nod. And he realized, that as much of her extremely reasonable cynicism as she might direct toward their pilot, that she'd rather he stay than go. And that she knew that the go side of the scale had a pretty heavy thumb pressing down on it at the moment.
He didn't sneak up the stairs to the bridge, but he did walk soft, intent on catching any chatter that might be going back and forth over his comm. He heard nothing, however, complete silence meeting him as he stepped over the threshold. Place was near dark as well, backside of Wyoming now facing its primary, and them now looking out into the deepest black. Was right pretty, a splash of stars twinkling through the blanket of atmosphere. He'd come to prefer, though, the stark, piercing points they became when viewed through vacuum.
As the navigation system was down - reasonable as they were still situated in Mr. Song's fallow field - Serenity's boards were unlit. The only light Wash had going was the Cortex screen, lit up on cool gray standby. With the tiny red incoming wave alert flashing in the upper right corner.
Wash, seated in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, swiveled about a bit to watch him come in, giving him a nod before turning to look back out into the night sky.
“What's that?” Mal asked. And when Wash glanced back over his shoulder at him, he tilted his chin toward the blinking red light.
“It's for me,” Wash replied, finger stabbing out to take the communication system off-line. The screen went dark, and the only light now came from the stars and the tiny, insistently blinking LED. “Captain Renshaw.” He tucked his arms back tight across his chest.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Wash licked his lips, tongue tip running along the bottom of his mustache. “Waved earlier in the day. Few times, actually. Left a bunch of messages. Says they're lifting off tomorrow, at local dawn. That's oh five twenty-three Serenity time.”
As Wash spoke, Mal found his gaze being pulled to the helm. Something about it was off, not right. Then it struck him, with a shock like icy water dumped over his head. The dinosaurs. Serenity had been flying with dinosaurs on her helm since the very first day Wash had lifted her up into the Black. And they were gone. Every last one of them, down to the little beak-mouthed leptocerawhatsis. His searching eyes fell to a pale shape on the deck by Wash's feet and, well enough adapted to the dark, made out that it was a small duffel. Zipped up and full. He was pretty sure he knew what was inside it.
Wash paused a moment, before finishing up, “Says that co-pilot's berth is still open.”
Mal pulled his gaze off the duffel to peer through the darkness at his pilot. “What'd you tell him?”
“I... I haven't replied. Yet.”
Mal's pride wouldn't allow him to beg, but he needed to know the man's intent. He took a long, slow breath, stepping forward a bit so he could see him better. “Could use an answer, Wash.” He shifted his gaze, sweeping it meaningfully over the dinosaur-free helm before resting it again on the man's face. “You gonna take up with Renshaw?”
Wash looked up at him, licked his lips again, then caught the corner of his mustache between his canines, gnawing at it. That whole feature was definitely beginning to look a little raggedy. And while he didn't avert his gaze from Mal's, he didn't answer directly, instead saying with a quiet intensity, “I don't like bein' grounded.”
Mal gave a near-silent snort at that understatement, then replied, low and steady. “So I've gathered. And I can't guarantee you it won't happen now and again. But I can guarantee I'll do everything in my power to get Serenity back in the sky when it does.”
Wash sat still a long moment, then nodded slowly. “I know that, Mal.” The tension in his face eased a bit as he smiled slightly. “Know you'd be lifting Serenity skyward on your own back right now, if you could.”
Mal smiled in return, a one shouldered shrug acknowledging Wash spoke true. But then Wash broke eye contact, turning his face to look out and up at the night sky. “I don't like being grounded,” he repeated, voice still soft, but winding up tighter with every word. “I don't like being stuck in the dirt. Tied down.”
Mal heard too many layers in that, layers he didn't know if it would be a good idea to peel back. Folks formed layers for good reasons, just like their bodies formed calluses and scars over vulnerable flesh. He decided to leave it at that. He knew people under stress. Realized now was not the time to press for that answer, much as he wanted to. Because pressing too hard right now could make Wash jump away, jump the wrong direction, off Serenity, just to escape the pressure.
“I hear that,” he said lightly, turning to leave. “See ya in the mornin'.” He glanced back as he stepped through the hatch. Eyes still fixed on the starry sky, Wash had lifted one hand to set light fingertips on Serenity's yoke.
~*~
shing so - spacer
On to Day Nine...
Characters: Mal, Wash, Zoe, Bester, Kaylee.
Word count: ~3300
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 8~
Mal refrained from taking Wash off-ship the next day, even though that put the man at risk of a Bester-swung spanner upside his head. Renshaw still prowled the town, and Mal couldn't shake the memory of the yearning looks Wash had cast in the Golden Dawn's direction. They had a couple crates of scrap parts they'd picked up cheap a few worlds back, on the chance some of those parts could be of use to Serenity or cannibalized to be so. So Mal set Wash to sorting those parts, into bits he judged could be of use and those he knew wouldn't be. He accepted that task with a single, tight-lipped nod, and Mal knew Wash full well knew that he was being given busy-work to keep him out of temptation's path.
A couple hours later, making a patrol sweep through Serenity in the interest of letting his crew know he was keeping an eye on their progress - such as it was - he made his way back down the steps to the cargo bay. He felt a little bump of anxiety when he noticed the two scrap crates open and empty, most of the scrap heaped up beside them. A drop cloth spread out on the deck had an assortment of bits and pieces laid out in two orderly rows in front of them. But Wash was nowhere to be seen.
The sound of clanking chains above him drew his gaze upward, where he spotted his pilot, clinging like a monkey to the access grid on the cargo bay's ceiling. He opened his mouth, preparing to inquire - loudly - just what in the sphincters of hell he was about. Then snapped his mouth shut, pressing his lips together, supremely irritated. His shouting could startle the man, and while a tumble eight meters to the metal deck below would solve Mal's quandary over which of his crewmen to do away with, he'd then be without a pilot. Although at this point in time it was beginning to appear any future need of a pilot was becoming moot.
He contented himself with glaring up at the man, arms crossed over his chest. Sure enough, Wash soon felt the weight of his stare, turning his head to peer down at him.
“Captain!” he yelled delightedly. “I just finished it. Look!” He swung off the grid onto the catwalk, then hit the controls for the ceiling winch. The electric motor whined into action, reeling out a length of chain, at the end of which hung a large metal ring. Wash cut the winch when that ring was suspended about four meters above the deck. Then he clattered down the access steps and across the bay's deck to where Mal stood. His manic grin crumbled a bit at the sight of Mal's irritated scowl.
“Does my ship need that part?”
“Huh?” Wash glanced up at the dangling ring, then back to Mal, bloodshot eyes wide and earnest. “Oh, no, no, Captain. It's a secondary locking ring for the landing hydraulics on a C-class heavy transport. We've got no use for it.” Blinking anxiously, he added hastily, “But I can put it back with the scrap if you want.”
“Well, if we don't need it. But-” He waved a hand at Wash's work. “Whatcha got goin' here? Some kinda modern art?”
Wash stared at him a moment, then barked out a short laugh. “Ha! No, it's-” He broke off, darting away from Mal to one side of the bay, stooping to scoop up a large silver-gray ball from the deck, then twisting to leap straight up, lofting it off his fingertips in one smooth movement. It arced though the air, right through the center of the ring. Wash crowed, “Score!” then dashed after the ball to retrieve it, bouncing it on the deck as he trotted back to Mal.
“It's hoop ball,” he declared, grinning a very pleased grin. He offered the ball to Mal. “Wanna play?”
Mal opened his mouth to say no, he didn't have the time. But, truth be told, he did, as he his own self was about as necessary and useful to the running of his downed ship at the moment as Wash was. And if he could help the guy loosen up some while keeping him on-board and out from under Renshaw's predatory eye, well, it would be the captainy thing to do.
So he took the ball, saying, “Ain't never played before.” Which was true, baseball being the sport the town and country kids on Shadow organized themselves into whenever schooling and chores allowed.
“I'll go easy on ya,” Wash replied, his grin taking on a wicked slant.
An hour later, he took a moment to huff and puff some air back into his lungs, flapping the front of his shirt in the hope of encouraging a breeze. He glanced up and caught sight of Zoe on an upper catwalk, leaning on the railing as she watched. Wash, flushed, the top of his flightsuit shucked and tied off around his waist by its sleeves, tank sweat soaked, flipped the ball to Mal as he trotted past him. “Your go,” he panted. “Score's nine/one.”
Mal got control of the ball, glanced back up, and found the catwalk now empty. Too bad. Was pretty sure this was Zoe's kinda game. And he sure coulda used the back-up. He charged Wash, now guarding the hoop, having found he was more likely to score by being extremely aggressive. Plus, Wash seemed to have more fun when a little wrestling was added to the play.
Zoe called them up for dinner, and they sat down in their sweaty kit, as Bester, looking more combed and polished than usual, cast superior looks in their direction. After all that exercise, Mal would have figured Wash would've worked up an appetite. But he just picked at his food, shaping it into a variety of patterns on his plate. Mal noticed Zoe was watching the man carefully, a little crease between her brows. It was reassuring to see that concern in her, however out of character. Less reassuring and even more out of character was the fact that Wash seemed completely oblivious to her regard.
Wash did glance up, peering out from under his brows, when Bester, rising with his empty dishes, breezily announced he was heading into town for the evening. He said nothing, though, his face completely still as his eyes followed the man as he dropped his plate and glass into the sink before heading for the gangway off the forward corridor, heading down to the cargo bay and the main exit. All the while, Mal was arguing with himself as to whether he should call the man back, deny him leave until he got his work done, or whether it was better to have Serenity free of him for a few hours, especially in the sulky state he'd be in if his liberty were curtailed. What decided him was the tiny fluttering tic under Wash's right eye. Never seen that before. Decided the further apart his crewmen were from one another, the better, and he let Bester go.
Was Wash's stint at kitchen duty, and while he washed, dried, and put away, Mal and Zoe settled into the lounge, pulling out the star-checker set. Finished up their first game just as Wash put away the casserole dish then headed forward, Mal amiably cussing Zoe out for her more rapid than usual win. She beat him most times, but it didn't help that he'd been completely indifferent to his marbles' positions as he'd watched his pilot out of the corner of his eye. He didn't hear the clank-hiss of a bunk hatch opening, so he figured Wash had, just as he had in recent evenings, gone on up to the bridge.
Second game he was doing better, actually making her work for it a bit. Until fifteen minutes in, when he heard footsteps in the forward corridor, coming toward the galley. 'Course it was Wash, his gorram weird shing so shoes padding soft on the deck. Soft, but lots quicker than he usually moved. And he turned before he reached the galley. Mal realized Wash had gone through the starboard hatch to head down the gangway Bester had taken earlier, down into the cargo bay. Which led to out. And it came to Mal that while Serenity's engine might be off-line, her communication systems were, thanks to Wash, in peak working order. And he reckoned there weren't nothing wrong with the Golden Dawn's Cortex connections.
He glanced up at Zoe and she met his eyes with a little nod, acknowledging she had, of course, heard and followed the man's trajectory. The perfect thing about Zoe was he didn't have to pretend. He didn't have to pretend that he wasn't worried that his pilot might have just decided to jump ship, and was now heading into town, toward that spaceport hosting that functioning ship with a captain who had avidly courted that same said pilot for a month before Mal had won him. And who had shamelessly reengaged in that courtship just the night before. So, not having to pretend, he simply stood up, abandoning the game without explanation, heading for the cargo bay gangway, Zoe pretty much right on his heels.
Wash had made it into the cargo bay, yes, and the front hatch gaped open, letting in the earth-scented nighttime air. But there he had stopped. He stood under the hoop he'd suspended, spinning the silver ball between his hands. Mal made himself step soft as he came down onto the upper catwalk, and of course Zoe, just behind him, was as silent as always. So their presence didn't distract Wash as he backed out from under the hoop some few paces, then set himself loping back toward it, bouncing the ball on the deck, one, two, three times, before lofting it through the hoop with his right hand. He kept jogging, chasing after the ball, catching it up, turning, then bouncing the ball one, two, three times before lofting the ball with his left hand, through the hoop, jogging without a pause after it, fetching the ball, turning, bouncing one, two, three, tossing with the right, scoring, jogging, fetching, turning, bouncing one, two, three, tossing with the left...
Five minutes, Mal watched, then another ten. And the unrelenting sameness of the pattern Wash had set himself on drew up an uneasiness in him. 'Cause he'd seen that same kind of mindless, patterned movement somewhere before. It took him another few minutes of watching for the memory to surface. He'd been about six, his mama had taken him into town, a day off, 'cuz a carnival ship had touched down. Been games and rides and shows. Including a tiny exhibit of critters not established on Shadow. There's been a cat-like beast, not any bigger than their tom back at home, but with huge tufted ears, big old paws and not much of a tail, in a cage about two by three meters. And Wash was like that cat. Pace, pace, pace to one end of the cage, rear up and push off the wall with one paw, twisting around to pace, pace, pace to the other side, rear up, push off with the other paw, pivoting right around, mouth gaped just a bit with its panting, pink tongue just showing, eyes unfocused, unseeing. Again and again and again. A strip of the metal cage bottom and the places where that cat's paws had landed on its walls worn shiny.
“Gorram it,” Mal muttered, then turning around, pushed past Zoe to head back to the galley. Kinda expected her to follow right after, but he'd been seated in the lounge, rolling marbles not in play from hand to hand for a few minutes before she came in. She sat back down, and moved the next marble on the board, blocking the magnificent run he'd maneuvered for. And he didn't even care. He thrashed his way through that game and through the next hour, losing both, the sound of that ball spanking against the deck echoing up faintly from the bay into the galley. He'd gotten so caught up in the rhythm of it, that when it stopped suddenly, his head came up, Zoe's movement mirroring his own. They paused, listening to the silence.
Mal had no hold on Wash. Guy wasn't a soldier, hadn't sworn loyalty to a cause and to obey all lawful orders. And hell, at this point Mal had no cause, and a goodly number of his orders weren't lawful. They had a deal, yeah, had shook on it when Wash came aboard. Wash would fly Mal's ship in return for a top pilot's cut of their jobs' profits. But as they weren't currently workin', there weren't currently any profits and hence, no cut. On top of that, and probably more significantly as far as Wash was concerned, they weren't flyin'. And, just as Mal had the power to toss Wash off his boat for any or no reason at all, Wash had the freedom to walk. At any time.
After a moment, a very long moment, they heard the pad of Wash's slow footsteps coming up the steps and into the corridor. Could have gone forward, toward his bunk or the bridge. But instead he turned aft, coming carefully down the steps into the galley. His hair stood in sweaty spikes around his head, his tank was drenched, and his eyes had the glazed look of someone who had worked himself into a state of unthinking numbness. Mal watched him, of course, Zoe too, but casually, and when he said nothing, they kept their heads down over their game board.
The man went straight for the kitchen, filling and drinking two glasses of water from the tap. He paused a moment, breathing hard, then drained a third glass more slowly. He washed the glass, dried it and put it away. Then he went forward. Again, Mal didn't hear the sound of a bunk hatch opening, so he figured Wash had gone all the way up to the bridge. Back to that fully operational Cortex system.
He stood, and Zoe said, “Good night, sir.” He glanced at her, hearing more meaning behind those words than usual. She gave him a nod. And he realized, that as much of her extremely reasonable cynicism as she might direct toward their pilot, that she'd rather he stay than go. And that she knew that the go side of the scale had a pretty heavy thumb pressing down on it at the moment.
He didn't sneak up the stairs to the bridge, but he did walk soft, intent on catching any chatter that might be going back and forth over his comm. He heard nothing, however, complete silence meeting him as he stepped over the threshold. Place was near dark as well, backside of Wyoming now facing its primary, and them now looking out into the deepest black. Was right pretty, a splash of stars twinkling through the blanket of atmosphere. He'd come to prefer, though, the stark, piercing points they became when viewed through vacuum.
As the navigation system was down - reasonable as they were still situated in Mr. Song's fallow field - Serenity's boards were unlit. The only light Wash had going was the Cortex screen, lit up on cool gray standby. With the tiny red incoming wave alert flashing in the upper right corner.
Wash, seated in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, swiveled about a bit to watch him come in, giving him a nod before turning to look back out into the night sky.
“What's that?” Mal asked. And when Wash glanced back over his shoulder at him, he tilted his chin toward the blinking red light.
“It's for me,” Wash replied, finger stabbing out to take the communication system off-line. The screen went dark, and the only light now came from the stars and the tiny, insistently blinking LED. “Captain Renshaw.” He tucked his arms back tight across his chest.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Wash licked his lips, tongue tip running along the bottom of his mustache. “Waved earlier in the day. Few times, actually. Left a bunch of messages. Says they're lifting off tomorrow, at local dawn. That's oh five twenty-three Serenity time.”
As Wash spoke, Mal found his gaze being pulled to the helm. Something about it was off, not right. Then it struck him, with a shock like icy water dumped over his head. The dinosaurs. Serenity had been flying with dinosaurs on her helm since the very first day Wash had lifted her up into the Black. And they were gone. Every last one of them, down to the little beak-mouthed leptocerawhatsis. His searching eyes fell to a pale shape on the deck by Wash's feet and, well enough adapted to the dark, made out that it was a small duffel. Zipped up and full. He was pretty sure he knew what was inside it.
Wash paused a moment, before finishing up, “Says that co-pilot's berth is still open.”
Mal pulled his gaze off the duffel to peer through the darkness at his pilot. “What'd you tell him?”
“I... I haven't replied. Yet.”
Mal's pride wouldn't allow him to beg, but he needed to know the man's intent. He took a long, slow breath, stepping forward a bit so he could see him better. “Could use an answer, Wash.” He shifted his gaze, sweeping it meaningfully over the dinosaur-free helm before resting it again on the man's face. “You gonna take up with Renshaw?”
Wash looked up at him, licked his lips again, then caught the corner of his mustache between his canines, gnawing at it. That whole feature was definitely beginning to look a little raggedy. And while he didn't avert his gaze from Mal's, he didn't answer directly, instead saying with a quiet intensity, “I don't like bein' grounded.”
Mal gave a near-silent snort at that understatement, then replied, low and steady. “So I've gathered. And I can't guarantee you it won't happen now and again. But I can guarantee I'll do everything in my power to get Serenity back in the sky when it does.”
Wash sat still a long moment, then nodded slowly. “I know that, Mal.” The tension in his face eased a bit as he smiled slightly. “Know you'd be lifting Serenity skyward on your own back right now, if you could.”
Mal smiled in return, a one shouldered shrug acknowledging Wash spoke true. But then Wash broke eye contact, turning his face to look out and up at the night sky. “I don't like being grounded,” he repeated, voice still soft, but winding up tighter with every word. “I don't like being stuck in the dirt. Tied down.”
Mal heard too many layers in that, layers he didn't know if it would be a good idea to peel back. Folks formed layers for good reasons, just like their bodies formed calluses and scars over vulnerable flesh. He decided to leave it at that. He knew people under stress. Realized now was not the time to press for that answer, much as he wanted to. Because pressing too hard right now could make Wash jump away, jump the wrong direction, off Serenity, just to escape the pressure.
“I hear that,” he said lightly, turning to leave. “See ya in the mornin'.” He glanced back as he stepped through the hatch. Eyes still fixed on the starry sky, Wash had lifted one hand to set light fingertips on Serenity's yoke.
~*~
shing so - spacer
On to Day Nine...