Charlie is not far off, thumbing through that big book of poetry he's been using of late. He notices a face he's seen before. In a picture frame. In Sallie's house.
Mal's eyes narrow at this. He always ends up taking more of a heavy view whenever he meets someone claiming relationship with his mother. Call it a habit.
"She ain't ever mentioned you," Mal offers cautiously.
"No, I suppose she wouldn't. She seems very private. But I was at her house for Christmas. That was where I saw your photo. You and your...wife?" Sallie never said. "If it matters, she doesn't say much about you."
It's easy enough to assume that the simplicity is there. Ignorance is bliss, when it comes to Mal's mother sometimes. (Then there are the times it blows up in Mal's face, but that's neither here nor there.)
"Things. Life in the Bar, her work here, poetry. Nothing special." Except when it's Cubefall. Or April Fool's Day. No reason Mal needs to hear about that.
"My suggestion. Your era seems to know so little about the past, and your mother doesn't have any knowledge about that in particular, so I offered." He doesn't want to say that he thinks that Sallie really needed a better education.
"Excuse me...you're Malcolm Reynolds, right?"
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Usually folk who want to know who Mal is don't really want to know for a good reason.
"I'm not sharing the cupcake."
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"She ain't ever mentioned you," Mal offers cautiously.
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Most people do.
"Might as well sit. If you're wantin' to."
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"So," he adds, "does the Bar. But I think I prefer your mother's."
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Which lets Mal relax the smallest bit.
"How'd you meet?"
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It's easy enough to assume that the simplicity is there. Ignorance is bliss, when it comes to Mal's mother sometimes. (Then there are the times it blows up in Mal's face, but that's neither here nor there.)
"What do you two talk on?"
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Except when it's Cubefall. Or April Fool's Day. No reason Mal needs to hear about that.
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Mal turns decidedly quizzical.
"That you or her?"
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