Wild Turkey
The final entry for Algerina's 9th Annual Summer Fan Creative Writing Contest is....
Wild Turkey
Author: Leather Jacket
Fandom: Firefly
Rating: PG/FRT.
"Nice," the large, muscular man with the short-cropped goatee exclaimed.
"Oh, yes, lovely," the powerful woman with the chocolate skin and cascade of long curls muttered, swallowing.
"We're..."
"Runnin' 'shine," Malcolm Reynolds grinned as he hoisted a gallon jug out of the opened crate and showed it to the assembled crowd. While Zoe, Wash and Simon grimaced, and Jayne grinned ear-to-ear, Kaylee took a few steps back, hand to her collar.
"I see you're clinging to those high standards you've set for clientele," Simon scoffed.
"I got the best standards for clientele," Mal insisted, smiling tightly. "Those what can pay. So don't you worry your pretty little head about it."
"You keep calling me pretty, people are going to start getting ideas."
"Oh, we've already got started," Zoe chuckled.
As Simon stared at her wide-eyed, and Malcolm stammered, no one noticed Kaylee backing up further and slipping out of the cargo hold.
"Oh, relax, you two. We have to have someone to gossip about."
"We tried Reverend Book," Wash added, "but we couldn't come up with anything we actually believed."
"Reverend..." Jayne started.
"Oh, you know," Wash explained, "like that he was a polygamist on the run, or an escaped schizophrenic, or an Alliance agent."
"A -- a -- a ---"
"Well, how about Jayne and ..." Simon started, then looked at Jayne who was suddenly scowling. "No, I suppose not."
"Mayhap you should think about doin' yer jobs," Mal ... suggested. "Ship don't fly itself."
With that, Wash turned tail and ran. Zoe followed behind him.
"I'm sure you two would like some alone time," Jayne said as he also ducked out.
"He's got doctorin' to do!" Captain Reynolds called after them.
"Actually, I don't at the moment. Not that I want alone time, because, well, no."
"Then find somethin' to do before I start thinkin' I'm over-payin' you."
A few minutes after they'd left, Kaylee slipped back into the cargo hold. She wiped a tear from one eye with a finger. Then reached into the crate. It took both hands to lift the bottle out. She yanked off the stopper, bent down to touch her lips to the bottle and tilted it.
* * * * * * *
In the bowels of the dark and dirty spaceship, there was a room that was clean and white and sparkling. And in this room, a man in a starched white shirt, navy trousers and a brocade vest --- and a white smock covering it all --- stood in front of an easel. He touched a thin long-handled brush to a canvass propped against the easel and gently stroked down. Simon dipped the brush back into a tray of different colored paints in front of the canvas just as the ship lurched violently. He grabbed the canvas with his free left hand while struggling to maintain his balance.
"Watcha doin'?" Kaylee asked from the door of the sickbay.
"Oh, just trying to prevent a catastrophe."
As Simon set the canvas back on the easel, Captain Reynolds was stomping down the wrought-iron stairs leading from the upper deck past sickbay toward engineering. His head whipped to the left as he saw Simon standing there. He turned quickly and charged into the room. "Kaylee! Why is the ... What the tarnation are you doin'?"
"It's called a painting," Simon began.
"I know what a painting is," Mal grumbled. "Why are you doin' it here?"
"I needed light, and I needed space," Simon said. He turned to look at the captain. "You told me to find something to do. Why is this a problem?"
"This is a problem --" Mal fumed as the ship rocked again. He grabbed hold of one side of the doorway while Kaylee grabbed the other. "-- because I don't want you squanderin' my hard-earned crime money on these ... " Mal waved at the paints aimlessly.
"I didn't spend your crime money on paints," Simon huffed as he turned to them and rested his hand on top of the easel. "It was about two weeks ago. We were on that moon that sounds like a sneeze."
"Ah-chung?" Mal asked.
"Yes," Simon nodded. "A man there had a bad star burn. I showed him how he could take several of the nearby plants, crush them into a paste and use it to sooth the burn. He had no money, but he was grateful, so he gave me his son's paints."
"And what is the son going to paint with?"
"He died two years ago. Typhus."
Another jolt of the ship sent the entire easel falling to the ground, Simon on top of it. Both Malcolm and Kaylee rushed forward and as Mal lifted Simon up by the shoulders, Kaylee righted the easel. "What is that?" Kaylee gasped as she studied the 3 foot by 2 foot canvas.
"It's a parakeet," Simon said as he brushed at the green and yellow paint smears on his smock.
"It's ..." Kaylee's lip curled as she stared at the giant green bird with its outstretched gray wings, its 6 inch long mouth open wide. "... it's hideous."
"Well, it's a bit mussed up from having just fallen on it." Simon blushed.
"You know," Mal said as he sat against the examining table, "I wouldn't call it hideous but it's not very good."
Simon spun around. "And why would you say that, Captain Art Critic?" he asked, hands firmly pressed on his hips.
"Well, you only got one keet there."
"No, it's not a pair of ..." Simon reddened further. "You're messing with me."
Mal grinned. "Just a little."
"I didn't mean the painting ... although, maybe a little," Kaylee said. "I meant the bird." She knocked the canvas with her open hand ... then rubbed the paint on her hand onto her coveralls. "Why would you want to paint a picture of this giant green bird with the gaping jaws and the outstretched..." She shuddered. "I wouldn't want anything like that anywhere near me."
"No," Simon smiled. "Parakeets weren't giant birds. On Earth That Was, people would keep them as pets. I---" he bowed his head slightly. "I've never actually seen a live one. I don't think they were brought to the Central Planets, and they certainly wouldn't be out here... not practical. But I have seen pictures. A parakeet would only be the size of your fist, from what I've read."
"So, why'dya draw it so big?" Mal wanted to know.
Simon shrugged. "It's a big canvas."
"And why'd ya make it like it looks like it wants to ... eat me?" Kaylee shivered again.
Another jolt sent the ship rocking again and Simon quickly caught the easel while Mal grabbed the painting. They set everything right again. "This aint the place for messin' with paints," Mal insisted and he stormed out of the room. "Clean that stuff up."
"I better see to the engines before Cap starts yellin' at me." Kaylee also rushed out.
As Mal climbed the metal stairs again, the ship jolted again, sending him crashing into the railing and falling down to the floor. "Kaylee!"
They both rushed out to him. Mal was sprawled on the floor, blood staining his right ear, his palm pressed against his right side.
"I'm sorry," Kaylee blurted, "the transverse needs new shielding."
"Never mind that now," Simon said. "Can you wiggle your fingers and toes?"
"Yes, mind that now," Mal insisted. "Kaylee, you get those jolts to stop before somebody really gets hurt. I can wiggle my fingers and toes, just fine, thank you." But as he demonstrated, he revealed more blood on his shirt and his palm.
Simon reached under Mal's shoulders and helped him to his feet. "Let's get you inside and see what's going on there."
"Not with all that paint on you."
"Fine!" Simon yelled. He leaned Mal against a post and ripped off the smock as he ran back to the sickbay.
"What can I do?" Kaylee asked.
"You can get the ship to stop shakin'! Go!"
"But I need a new shield."
"Figger somethin' out! Just go!" and she ran off.
Simon rushed back, and with his clean hands and clean clothes guided Mal to the clean examining table, well away from the smear of paint still on the floor.
"You're not gonna paint me, are you?" Mal asked.
"Not today," Simon smiled. He looked closely at the blooded ear, then started to open Mal's shirt.
"I can do that myself," Mal insisted.
Simon removed his hands and straightened. "Go right ahead."
Mal winced as he reached for the buttons of his shirt. He groaned as he tried to grasp the top button. He switched to the bloody hand and cried out as he twisted it.
"Are you done?" Simon asked.
"Go ahead," Mal growled, "but I expect you to buy me dinner after."
"I need to make sure that blood is just coming from your hand and not a gaping stomach wound." Simon made quick work of the shirt and pushed it and the suspenders back off Mal's shoulders.
"Nice. Has anyone ever told you your bedside manner needs work?"
"You need a couple stitches in your palm, and your other wrist is broken. There," he replied as he examined Mal's torso. "Now when I tell you you don't have a gushing belly wound, it's good news."
"Oh, yes, lovely news." Mal grumbled. "How're you so sure the wrist is broken --- AAAH!" he screamed as Simon pulled on the arm.
* * * * * * * *
Kaylee did not go back to engineering. Instead, she headed straight into the cargo bay, where she went straight to that compartment, slid open the cover panel and reopened the crate. She pulled out a different jug this time, pressed it to her lips and tipped it.
* * * * * * * *
Back at sickbay, Simon was just finishing up bandaging Mal's palm. The other wrist was wrapped tight in a splint. Simon put the gauze and scissors away and returned. He pulled up the stool beside the examining table, climbed on board and reached around the captain's waist. Reynolds pulled away.
"What exactly are you doin?"
"Relax. You can have a cigarette after. That's an ugly bruise you have there," Simon explained. "I want to make sure it's not a broken rib."
"Huh," Mal scoffed. "Some doctor you are, promoting smoking. And why aint you usin' a translucent scan?"
"Because you haven't bought me a translucent scanner."
Outside of sickbay, Kaylee peered around a corner. She wobbled slightly, and grabbed hold of the corner. She watched as Simon reached for Mal's sides, gliding his hands along those abdominal muscles. She ducked away and headed back to the cargo bay.
"I don't think any ribs are broken, but I'll see you again tomorrow."
"I'll be on the bridge." Mal grinned at that thought, "Which you're not allowed on."
"Since ... when?" Simon asked.
As Mal left, he yelled, "And get that painting out of my sickbay."
"It's MY ..." Simon turned away as he saw that Mal had already rounded a corner. "... sickbay."
* * * * * * * *
Simon climbed the rickety ladder leading up to the bridge. He cleared his throat. "Uh... Captain."
"Kinda busy." Mal stood behind Wash, who was sitting at the pilot console, really not doing much of anything. "Come on," he whispered to Wash, "make me look busy."
Wash flicked a switch. The ship lurched forward and Wash jumped to attention, flipping several other switches and turning a dial to bring the ship back in line.
"I could... examine you here, if you'd rather," Simon suggested. "Take off your shirt."
Mal waved a bandaged hand ... and a bandaged wrist.
"Okay," Simon offered, "I'll take off your shirt."
"Would you two like some privacy?" Wash asked.
Simon lead Mal down the ladder, through the galley, down another ladder and toward sickbay. Mal stopped at the entrance and glared at the canvas standing on the easel above a pristine floor. "What is that thing still doing here in my sickbay?"
Simon wheeled on him. Hands balled into fists, he marched toward the captain. He pushed him backward out of the doorway.
"Did you just *push* me?" Mal exclaimed.
Simon ignored him. He waved out at the cargo bay. "This," he said, "is YOUR ship." Then he waved at the clean, white room. "This is MY sickbay." Then he turned back to the captain. "Do I make myself clear? Or do you want to try to find another doctor who will tend to your frequent injuries while ignoring your ... creative business ventures?"
"Look," Mal smiled. "This arrangement's as good for you as it is for me." Then he offered, "And don't forget Kaylee's here."
"Do I make myself clear?" Simon repeated.
"Yes, fine, it's your sickbay. But come on, painting isn't exactly sterile."
"I keep the paints over there and the meds over here." At that moment, the ship rocked again. "... until the ship shakes everything up. Now climb up."
Mal ignored the step stool and hoisted himself up onto the exam table, wincing as he did so. Simon made quick work of unbuttoning Mal's shirt and pushing it away. It was then that Kaylee peered around a nearby corner. She watched as Simon reached for Mal's sides and gently stroked up and down, back and forth.
"That's good, very good," Simon mentioned.
Kaylee pulled a flask out of her coveralls and took a long swig from it.
"Well, I have been working out." Mal winked. "I'm glad you're pleased."
Just then, Kaylee came rushing into the sickbay, brandishing a hatchet high above her head. She screamed and Simon ducked away as Mal jumped off of and behind the exam table. Kaylee, eyes wild, went straight for the painting on the easel. She grunted and huffed as she hacked and sliced at the giant bird.
"Kaylee, what are you..."
"Kaylee, stop!" Captain Reynolds yelled. He came forward to try to grab her, but she turned rapidly and the hatchet sliced his forearm. "Great! More blood."
Simon quickly grabbed a roll of gauze and a spray bottle. He disinfected the cut and wound the gauze around the arm. Mal grabbed the gauze out of Simon's hands and quickly started wrapping it around his fist.
Kaylee set back to work on the painting. At the same time, Jayne, Zoe, Wash and Book arrived at the doorway. Jayne rushed in. The hatchet swung back over Kaylee's head, stopping two feet from Jayne's forehead and he rushed back out again.
"Kaylee..."
"Child..."
"Have you lost your mind?"
Mal finished with the gauze and slammed the wrapped fist into Kaylee's cheek. She wheeled on him again, and raised the hatchet. Zoe rushed her from the side and pulled the weapon out of her hand. She tossed it to Wash, who flinched. Book grabbed the hatchet in mid-air at the handle and set it down. Zoe wrapped her arms around Kaylee, who struggled against the woman.
Simon fumbled in a drawer, pulled out a needle and a vial, filled the needle with a clear liquid and stepped forward. "Kaylee... This isn't going to hurt. We just need you to calm down." He shot a small amount of the liquid into the air, then pushed the needle into Kaylee's neck while she struggled against the much stronger Zoe.
Kaylee brandished teeth and, writhing in Zoe's grasp managed to close them on Simon's arm before passing out.
"Did she get you?" Zoe asked as Kaylee slumped to the floor.
"No permanent damage." Simon flexed his fingers.
"Not to you, anyway," Mal complained.
"You punched Kaylee!" Wash exclaimed.
"She had an ax."
"It's a hatchet," Jayne said.
"So not the point."
* * * * * * * *
When Kaylee had been put in her room, Simon picked up the ruined painting. He grabbed a piece of the backing and pulled it off, then another and another. He gathered the whole thing up and took it to the incinerator. He opened the door, stuffed the canvas and wood into it and closed it again. He reached for the incinerating button and a hand closed around his wrist.
"Don't you have a sickbay to clean up?" Mal asked.
"Yes," Simon nodded. "I need to clean up *my* sickbay." He walked away from the incinerator, past Zoe, who was cleaning the cargo bay, and into the sick bay where he made quick work of the paint smear on the floor.
Zoe finished cleaning the broken glass in the bay and headed toward the galley when she kicked something. She followed the clattering noise to where a metal flask had come to rest at the base of the ladder. She picked it up, continued into the galley and set it down, Simon following close behind.
"Do you think this might explain Kaylee's rampage?" She asked.
"Kaylee's been dipping into my 'shine?" Mal exclaimed.
"Alcohol," Simon said, "no matter how bad it is, wouldn't cause that violent of a reaction." He spun around and raced down the ladder.
"Where are you----" Mal threw up his hands in frustration.
* * * * * * * *
"A word?" Simon said.
"You want to feel my ribs again?"
"No," Simon blushed. "I took a sample of that moonshine..."
"You do remember what happened when Kaylee did that," Wash said.
"Not to drink," Simon explained. "I ran a number of tests on it. It's been laced with a chemical called Phencyclidine."
"Phen---" Wash stumbled.
"You can call it PCP," Simon added.
Mal puzzled. "Phen-- Cycli-- Shouldn't that be PCD?"
Simon laughed quietly. "Pentachlorophenol, but at least you're thinking."
"How many names does this thing have, anyway?"
"Well," Simon told them, "On Earth That Was, it was called a lot of things: Angel Ball, Rocket Jane, Crystal ... which isn't the same as something called 'Crystal Meth'. They still teach about these drugs at the medical schools, but the making of them was thought to be long lost."
"Like the parakeet?" Mal asked.
Simon nodded.
"But you know 'em?" Jayne asked.
"Only in so far as I know what they are and how to test for them." Simon looked around at the group. "I did not lace your moonshine with..."
"No one's sayin' you did," Zoe comforted.
"And it aint our 'shine," Mal said. "We wuz just hired to deliver it."
"So, if most folk out here don't know how to make this phentyl-- chloryl-- it anymore, who does? And who would put it in the 'shine?" Mal added.
"One question at a time," Simon insisted. "Most med schools don't get into these drugs, but I did go to the best. And there must also be records at some Alliance facility somewhere."
"Alliance spiked my 'shine."
"I didn't say that," Simon raised his hands in a slow-down gesture. "And you did just say it's not your 'shine."
"Is Kaylee going to be all right?" Book asked.
"She should be," Simon told him. "The concentration is really small, but we should probably keep an eye on her and someone needs to find out why she started drinking in the first place."
"Probably 'cause the captain's always yellin' at her," Zoe suggested.
"I am not always yellin' at her. ... Well, no more'n anybody else."
Wash looked down at the table. "Maybe somebody could try askin' Kaylee. Maybe somebody with some counselin' skills?"
"I can try to talk to her when she feels better," Simon agreed.
"I didn't actually mean you." Wash turned to look at Reverend Book.
"Of course."
"Okay, not to be a jerk an' all, but what are we gonna do about that cargo hold full o' PCD?" Jayne asked.
"Well, we can't deliver it," Mal said. "Damn! I was lookin' for'erd to that money, too."
"Sure we can." Simon smiled.
"You want to poison an entire moon?" Zoe asked, incredulous.
"No," Simon said. "We dump what's there, clean out the bottles, make our own whiskey and put it in the bottles."
"Good plan," Mal agreed, "exceptin' it was gin."
"Okay, gin then."
"We'll need supplies," Zoe said, "and time."
"Delivery's gonna be late."
"I'll call the client," Wash offered.
"I'll start on the distillery. Well, at least you'll get one thing out of this," Simon told Captain Reynolds.
"What's that?"
"I've stop painting."
* * * * * * * *
That night, Malcolm Reynolds retreated into his quarters. He stripped off his shirt and pants, pulled a curtain away from his bed and climbed in. Then he pulled on another curtain at the foot of the bed. It opened to reveal a canvas, duck-taped in places, of a large green bird with outspread wings and gaping beak. He lay in the bed, stroked his side and across his abdomen, and whispered, "Shall I call you Simon's Bird? Or would that be too corny?"
The end.
Wild Turkey
Author: Leather Jacket
Fandom: Firefly
Rating: PG/FRT.
"Nice," the large, muscular man with the short-cropped goatee exclaimed.
"Oh, yes, lovely," the powerful woman with the chocolate skin and cascade of long curls muttered, swallowing.
"We're..."
"Runnin' 'shine," Malcolm Reynolds grinned as he hoisted a gallon jug out of the opened crate and showed it to the assembled crowd. While Zoe, Wash and Simon grimaced, and Jayne grinned ear-to-ear, Kaylee took a few steps back, hand to her collar.
"I see you're clinging to those high standards you've set for clientele," Simon scoffed.
"I got the best standards for clientele," Mal insisted, smiling tightly. "Those what can pay. So don't you worry your pretty little head about it."
"You keep calling me pretty, people are going to start getting ideas."
"Oh, we've already got started," Zoe chuckled.
As Simon stared at her wide-eyed, and Malcolm stammered, no one noticed Kaylee backing up further and slipping out of the cargo hold.
"Oh, relax, you two. We have to have someone to gossip about."
"We tried Reverend Book," Wash added, "but we couldn't come up with anything we actually believed."
"Reverend..." Jayne started.
"Oh, you know," Wash explained, "like that he was a polygamist on the run, or an escaped schizophrenic, or an Alliance agent."
"A -- a -- a ---"
"Well, how about Jayne and ..." Simon started, then looked at Jayne who was suddenly scowling. "No, I suppose not."
"Mayhap you should think about doin' yer jobs," Mal ... suggested. "Ship don't fly itself."
With that, Wash turned tail and ran. Zoe followed behind him.
"I'm sure you two would like some alone time," Jayne said as he also ducked out.
"He's got doctorin' to do!" Captain Reynolds called after them.
"Actually, I don't at the moment. Not that I want alone time, because, well, no."
"Then find somethin' to do before I start thinkin' I'm over-payin' you."
A few minutes after they'd left, Kaylee slipped back into the cargo hold. She wiped a tear from one eye with a finger. Then reached into the crate. It took both hands to lift the bottle out. She yanked off the stopper, bent down to touch her lips to the bottle and tilted it.
* * * * * * *
In the bowels of the dark and dirty spaceship, there was a room that was clean and white and sparkling. And in this room, a man in a starched white shirt, navy trousers and a brocade vest --- and a white smock covering it all --- stood in front of an easel. He touched a thin long-handled brush to a canvass propped against the easel and gently stroked down. Simon dipped the brush back into a tray of different colored paints in front of the canvas just as the ship lurched violently. He grabbed the canvas with his free left hand while struggling to maintain his balance.
"Watcha doin'?" Kaylee asked from the door of the sickbay.
"Oh, just trying to prevent a catastrophe."
As Simon set the canvas back on the easel, Captain Reynolds was stomping down the wrought-iron stairs leading from the upper deck past sickbay toward engineering. His head whipped to the left as he saw Simon standing there. He turned quickly and charged into the room. "Kaylee! Why is the ... What the tarnation are you doin'?"
"It's called a painting," Simon began.
"I know what a painting is," Mal grumbled. "Why are you doin' it here?"
"I needed light, and I needed space," Simon said. He turned to look at the captain. "You told me to find something to do. Why is this a problem?"
"This is a problem --" Mal fumed as the ship rocked again. He grabbed hold of one side of the doorway while Kaylee grabbed the other. "-- because I don't want you squanderin' my hard-earned crime money on these ... " Mal waved at the paints aimlessly.
"I didn't spend your crime money on paints," Simon huffed as he turned to them and rested his hand on top of the easel. "It was about two weeks ago. We were on that moon that sounds like a sneeze."
"Ah-chung?" Mal asked.
"Yes," Simon nodded. "A man there had a bad star burn. I showed him how he could take several of the nearby plants, crush them into a paste and use it to sooth the burn. He had no money, but he was grateful, so he gave me his son's paints."
"And what is the son going to paint with?"
"He died two years ago. Typhus."
Another jolt of the ship sent the entire easel falling to the ground, Simon on top of it. Both Malcolm and Kaylee rushed forward and as Mal lifted Simon up by the shoulders, Kaylee righted the easel. "What is that?" Kaylee gasped as she studied the 3 foot by 2 foot canvas.
"It's a parakeet," Simon said as he brushed at the green and yellow paint smears on his smock.
"It's ..." Kaylee's lip curled as she stared at the giant green bird with its outstretched gray wings, its 6 inch long mouth open wide. "... it's hideous."
"Well, it's a bit mussed up from having just fallen on it." Simon blushed.
"You know," Mal said as he sat against the examining table, "I wouldn't call it hideous but it's not very good."
Simon spun around. "And why would you say that, Captain Art Critic?" he asked, hands firmly pressed on his hips.
"Well, you only got one keet there."
"No, it's not a pair of ..." Simon reddened further. "You're messing with me."
Mal grinned. "Just a little."
"I didn't mean the painting ... although, maybe a little," Kaylee said. "I meant the bird." She knocked the canvas with her open hand ... then rubbed the paint on her hand onto her coveralls. "Why would you want to paint a picture of this giant green bird with the gaping jaws and the outstretched..." She shuddered. "I wouldn't want anything like that anywhere near me."
"No," Simon smiled. "Parakeets weren't giant birds. On Earth That Was, people would keep them as pets. I---" he bowed his head slightly. "I've never actually seen a live one. I don't think they were brought to the Central Planets, and they certainly wouldn't be out here... not practical. But I have seen pictures. A parakeet would only be the size of your fist, from what I've read."
"So, why'dya draw it so big?" Mal wanted to know.
Simon shrugged. "It's a big canvas."
"And why'd ya make it like it looks like it wants to ... eat me?" Kaylee shivered again.
Another jolt sent the ship rocking again and Simon quickly caught the easel while Mal grabbed the painting. They set everything right again. "This aint the place for messin' with paints," Mal insisted and he stormed out of the room. "Clean that stuff up."
"I better see to the engines before Cap starts yellin' at me." Kaylee also rushed out.
As Mal climbed the metal stairs again, the ship jolted again, sending him crashing into the railing and falling down to the floor. "Kaylee!"
They both rushed out to him. Mal was sprawled on the floor, blood staining his right ear, his palm pressed against his right side.
"I'm sorry," Kaylee blurted, "the transverse needs new shielding."
"Never mind that now," Simon said. "Can you wiggle your fingers and toes?"
"Yes, mind that now," Mal insisted. "Kaylee, you get those jolts to stop before somebody really gets hurt. I can wiggle my fingers and toes, just fine, thank you." But as he demonstrated, he revealed more blood on his shirt and his palm.
Simon reached under Mal's shoulders and helped him to his feet. "Let's get you inside and see what's going on there."
"Not with all that paint on you."
"Fine!" Simon yelled. He leaned Mal against a post and ripped off the smock as he ran back to the sickbay.
"What can I do?" Kaylee asked.
"You can get the ship to stop shakin'! Go!"
"But I need a new shield."
"Figger somethin' out! Just go!" and she ran off.
Simon rushed back, and with his clean hands and clean clothes guided Mal to the clean examining table, well away from the smear of paint still on the floor.
"You're not gonna paint me, are you?" Mal asked.
"Not today," Simon smiled. He looked closely at the blooded ear, then started to open Mal's shirt.
"I can do that myself," Mal insisted.
Simon removed his hands and straightened. "Go right ahead."
Mal winced as he reached for the buttons of his shirt. He groaned as he tried to grasp the top button. He switched to the bloody hand and cried out as he twisted it.
"Are you done?" Simon asked.
"Go ahead," Mal growled, "but I expect you to buy me dinner after."
"I need to make sure that blood is just coming from your hand and not a gaping stomach wound." Simon made quick work of the shirt and pushed it and the suspenders back off Mal's shoulders.
"Nice. Has anyone ever told you your bedside manner needs work?"
"You need a couple stitches in your palm, and your other wrist is broken. There," he replied as he examined Mal's torso. "Now when I tell you you don't have a gushing belly wound, it's good news."
"Oh, yes, lovely news." Mal grumbled. "How're you so sure the wrist is broken --- AAAH!" he screamed as Simon pulled on the arm.
* * * * * * * *
Kaylee did not go back to engineering. Instead, she headed straight into the cargo bay, where she went straight to that compartment, slid open the cover panel and reopened the crate. She pulled out a different jug this time, pressed it to her lips and tipped it.
* * * * * * * *
Back at sickbay, Simon was just finishing up bandaging Mal's palm. The other wrist was wrapped tight in a splint. Simon put the gauze and scissors away and returned. He pulled up the stool beside the examining table, climbed on board and reached around the captain's waist. Reynolds pulled away.
"What exactly are you doin?"
"Relax. You can have a cigarette after. That's an ugly bruise you have there," Simon explained. "I want to make sure it's not a broken rib."
"Huh," Mal scoffed. "Some doctor you are, promoting smoking. And why aint you usin' a translucent scan?"
"Because you haven't bought me a translucent scanner."
Outside of sickbay, Kaylee peered around a corner. She wobbled slightly, and grabbed hold of the corner. She watched as Simon reached for Mal's sides, gliding his hands along those abdominal muscles. She ducked away and headed back to the cargo bay.
"I don't think any ribs are broken, but I'll see you again tomorrow."
"I'll be on the bridge." Mal grinned at that thought, "Which you're not allowed on."
"Since ... when?" Simon asked.
As Mal left, he yelled, "And get that painting out of my sickbay."
"It's MY ..." Simon turned away as he saw that Mal had already rounded a corner. "... sickbay."
* * * * * * * *
Simon climbed the rickety ladder leading up to the bridge. He cleared his throat. "Uh... Captain."
"Kinda busy." Mal stood behind Wash, who was sitting at the pilot console, really not doing much of anything. "Come on," he whispered to Wash, "make me look busy."
Wash flicked a switch. The ship lurched forward and Wash jumped to attention, flipping several other switches and turning a dial to bring the ship back in line.
"I could... examine you here, if you'd rather," Simon suggested. "Take off your shirt."
Mal waved a bandaged hand ... and a bandaged wrist.
"Okay," Simon offered, "I'll take off your shirt."
"Would you two like some privacy?" Wash asked.
Simon lead Mal down the ladder, through the galley, down another ladder and toward sickbay. Mal stopped at the entrance and glared at the canvas standing on the easel above a pristine floor. "What is that thing still doing here in my sickbay?"
Simon wheeled on him. Hands balled into fists, he marched toward the captain. He pushed him backward out of the doorway.
"Did you just *push* me?" Mal exclaimed.
Simon ignored him. He waved out at the cargo bay. "This," he said, "is YOUR ship." Then he waved at the clean, white room. "This is MY sickbay." Then he turned back to the captain. "Do I make myself clear? Or do you want to try to find another doctor who will tend to your frequent injuries while ignoring your ... creative business ventures?"
"Look," Mal smiled. "This arrangement's as good for you as it is for me." Then he offered, "And don't forget Kaylee's here."
"Do I make myself clear?" Simon repeated.
"Yes, fine, it's your sickbay. But come on, painting isn't exactly sterile."
"I keep the paints over there and the meds over here." At that moment, the ship rocked again. "... until the ship shakes everything up. Now climb up."
Mal ignored the step stool and hoisted himself up onto the exam table, wincing as he did so. Simon made quick work of unbuttoning Mal's shirt and pushing it away. It was then that Kaylee peered around a nearby corner. She watched as Simon reached for Mal's sides and gently stroked up and down, back and forth.
"That's good, very good," Simon mentioned.
Kaylee pulled a flask out of her coveralls and took a long swig from it.
"Well, I have been working out." Mal winked. "I'm glad you're pleased."
Just then, Kaylee came rushing into the sickbay, brandishing a hatchet high above her head. She screamed and Simon ducked away as Mal jumped off of and behind the exam table. Kaylee, eyes wild, went straight for the painting on the easel. She grunted and huffed as she hacked and sliced at the giant bird.
"Kaylee, what are you..."
"Kaylee, stop!" Captain Reynolds yelled. He came forward to try to grab her, but she turned rapidly and the hatchet sliced his forearm. "Great! More blood."
Simon quickly grabbed a roll of gauze and a spray bottle. He disinfected the cut and wound the gauze around the arm. Mal grabbed the gauze out of Simon's hands and quickly started wrapping it around his fist.
Kaylee set back to work on the painting. At the same time, Jayne, Zoe, Wash and Book arrived at the doorway. Jayne rushed in. The hatchet swung back over Kaylee's head, stopping two feet from Jayne's forehead and he rushed back out again.
"Kaylee..."
"Child..."
"Have you lost your mind?"
Mal finished with the gauze and slammed the wrapped fist into Kaylee's cheek. She wheeled on him again, and raised the hatchet. Zoe rushed her from the side and pulled the weapon out of her hand. She tossed it to Wash, who flinched. Book grabbed the hatchet in mid-air at the handle and set it down. Zoe wrapped her arms around Kaylee, who struggled against the woman.
Simon fumbled in a drawer, pulled out a needle and a vial, filled the needle with a clear liquid and stepped forward. "Kaylee... This isn't going to hurt. We just need you to calm down." He shot a small amount of the liquid into the air, then pushed the needle into Kaylee's neck while she struggled against the much stronger Zoe.
Kaylee brandished teeth and, writhing in Zoe's grasp managed to close them on Simon's arm before passing out.
"Did she get you?" Zoe asked as Kaylee slumped to the floor.
"No permanent damage." Simon flexed his fingers.
"Not to you, anyway," Mal complained.
"You punched Kaylee!" Wash exclaimed.
"She had an ax."
"It's a hatchet," Jayne said.
"So not the point."
* * * * * * * *
When Kaylee had been put in her room, Simon picked up the ruined painting. He grabbed a piece of the backing and pulled it off, then another and another. He gathered the whole thing up and took it to the incinerator. He opened the door, stuffed the canvas and wood into it and closed it again. He reached for the incinerating button and a hand closed around his wrist.
"Don't you have a sickbay to clean up?" Mal asked.
"Yes," Simon nodded. "I need to clean up *my* sickbay." He walked away from the incinerator, past Zoe, who was cleaning the cargo bay, and into the sick bay where he made quick work of the paint smear on the floor.
Zoe finished cleaning the broken glass in the bay and headed toward the galley when she kicked something. She followed the clattering noise to where a metal flask had come to rest at the base of the ladder. She picked it up, continued into the galley and set it down, Simon following close behind.
"Do you think this might explain Kaylee's rampage?" She asked.
"Kaylee's been dipping into my 'shine?" Mal exclaimed.
"Alcohol," Simon said, "no matter how bad it is, wouldn't cause that violent of a reaction." He spun around and raced down the ladder.
"Where are you----" Mal threw up his hands in frustration.
* * * * * * * *
"A word?" Simon said.
"You want to feel my ribs again?"
"No," Simon blushed. "I took a sample of that moonshine..."
"You do remember what happened when Kaylee did that," Wash said.
"Not to drink," Simon explained. "I ran a number of tests on it. It's been laced with a chemical called Phencyclidine."
"Phen---" Wash stumbled.
"You can call it PCP," Simon added.
Mal puzzled. "Phen-- Cycli-- Shouldn't that be PCD?"
Simon laughed quietly. "Pentachlorophenol, but at least you're thinking."
"How many names does this thing have, anyway?"
"Well," Simon told them, "On Earth That Was, it was called a lot of things: Angel Ball, Rocket Jane, Crystal ... which isn't the same as something called 'Crystal Meth'. They still teach about these drugs at the medical schools, but the making of them was thought to be long lost."
"Like the parakeet?" Mal asked.
Simon nodded.
"But you know 'em?" Jayne asked.
"Only in so far as I know what they are and how to test for them." Simon looked around at the group. "I did not lace your moonshine with..."
"No one's sayin' you did," Zoe comforted.
"And it aint our 'shine," Mal said. "We wuz just hired to deliver it."
"So, if most folk out here don't know how to make this phentyl-- chloryl-- it anymore, who does? And who would put it in the 'shine?" Mal added.
"One question at a time," Simon insisted. "Most med schools don't get into these drugs, but I did go to the best. And there must also be records at some Alliance facility somewhere."
"Alliance spiked my 'shine."
"I didn't say that," Simon raised his hands in a slow-down gesture. "And you did just say it's not your 'shine."
"Is Kaylee going to be all right?" Book asked.
"She should be," Simon told him. "The concentration is really small, but we should probably keep an eye on her and someone needs to find out why she started drinking in the first place."
"Probably 'cause the captain's always yellin' at her," Zoe suggested.
"I am not always yellin' at her. ... Well, no more'n anybody else."
Wash looked down at the table. "Maybe somebody could try askin' Kaylee. Maybe somebody with some counselin' skills?"
"I can try to talk to her when she feels better," Simon agreed.
"I didn't actually mean you." Wash turned to look at Reverend Book.
"Of course."
"Okay, not to be a jerk an' all, but what are we gonna do about that cargo hold full o' PCD?" Jayne asked.
"Well, we can't deliver it," Mal said. "Damn! I was lookin' for'erd to that money, too."
"Sure we can." Simon smiled.
"You want to poison an entire moon?" Zoe asked, incredulous.
"No," Simon said. "We dump what's there, clean out the bottles, make our own whiskey and put it in the bottles."
"Good plan," Mal agreed, "exceptin' it was gin."
"Okay, gin then."
"We'll need supplies," Zoe said, "and time."
"Delivery's gonna be late."
"I'll call the client," Wash offered.
"I'll start on the distillery. Well, at least you'll get one thing out of this," Simon told Captain Reynolds.
"What's that?"
"I've stop painting."
* * * * * * * *
That night, Malcolm Reynolds retreated into his quarters. He stripped off his shirt and pants, pulled a curtain away from his bed and climbed in. Then he pulled on another curtain at the foot of the bed. It opened to reveal a canvas, duck-taped in places, of a large green bird with outspread wings and gaping beak. He lay in the bed, stroked his side and across his abdomen, and whispered, "Shall I call you Simon's Bird? Or would that be too corny?"
The end.