Sweet Charity fic # 2
FINALLY!
Another Sweet Charity fic for prehistoric_sea. I hoped to have this done as a shiny Christmas thing since it became obvious I wasn't gonna get it done any sooner than that. I'm so sorry for the uber long wait! I hope it's got everything you wanted.
The story is... Mal/Wash wartime AU. PG-13, I suppose.
Big thanks to woodsong_1978 for the beta!
Evaporated
***
Isn't often that a man of his standing makes it to this sort of position. That is to say, a standing of poverty, straight from the Rim or damn near enough. It should have been that he was one of the first taken down when they sent off waves of soldiers. Lots did go down, folks he knew, people he'd worked with. Not him though. 'Cause he damn well believes in what they're fighting for, and he isn't going to be taken out so easily. He has it in him to make a difference.
Shooting down Independent skiffs makes a damn fine difference. Those land to air cannons are fast becoming his favorite thing and there ain't nothing like seeing the skiff that had been shredding his men breaking apart mid-air. They aren't like the Alliance skiffs, fast and just as deadly, but not as sturdy. Alliance skiff might get shot and take you down to the ground safely, pilots were fairly assured that they'd get out of it okay.
It's a rare day when an Independent pilot has the same luck.
*
He can't believe it. He's their best pilot. They gave him the position, trusted him with a mission, with information. Surprise attacks and bombings.
“You've got it in you, son. Turn the tide of everything. Save a world.”
He closes his eyes, praying because there is nothing else he can do. At least the water he hits douses the flames.
*
One thing he's always hated is the way his steps echo through all the empty space. Not to mention the way this uniform feels stiff against him, not his usual one, the one he goes to battle in. This one isn't broken in, it's done up fancy for special meetings. Makes him want to fidget, to pull at the collar, but he has to keep himself straight.
“Sergeant Reynolds.”
He jumps at the voice from behind him, so lost in the sound of his own steps he hadn't heard the sound of two others.
“Captain. Might be I'm a bit early,” Mal apologizes, voice formal, though he never can quite get rid of that drawl he's sure make his superiors - and several of those under him - look down on him.
The Captain shakes his head. “We have a job for you, Reynolds. Someone for you to talk to. We figure having someone he can relate to - on his level - might open him up a bit more.”
Mal frowns. “On his level?”
*
It hurts. What else is he supposed to think?
He let everyone down, but all he can think is that it hurts so who the hell cares.
Everything is harsh light that glints off flawless metal. He'd panic if it wasn't making his head spin so much. He nearly does anyway when the door slides open. When the officers walk in.
It's not just the crash he hurts from.
***
He gets a quick debriefing. Just what he needs to know and he isn't in a high enough standing that he needs to know a lot. He should consider it a compliment and privilege that they're letting him in on this at all. But the pilot sitting in the interrogation room is stubborn or plain stupid. Their own rules say they can't kill him and the pilot seems to know it. Those same rules say they can't permanently or seriously harm him, and the pilot knows that too. That doesn't mean they can't make him hurt at all.
But he's Rim and Mal is Rim. The captain is grasping at straws and Mal doesn't like to think that a Browncoat has them on tenterhooks. Of course he says he'll do it and all he needs to do is make the man talk, share the information they know the pilot has.
The eyes that meet his are full of resolve when he steps into the room. There's a darkening bruise under the right. What catches Mal's attention, though, is the rash of a burn that flares up his neck and flicks over the edges of his jaw. They haven't covered it. And he knows in a heartbeat, ain't sure how but he just knows, that this is one of the pilots he shot down. A week ago, into water. The burn is bad and looking slow to heal, but it could have been worse.
Mal shuts the door behind him and nods to the man. Anyone that can survive a crash in a damn tin skiff deserves a bit of courtesy. “Evenin'.”
The pilot eyes him, something shrewd in the gaze. I know something you don't. Sing-songed like a childhood taunt. Mal bristles inwardly. “You're not Alliance.”
“Now why do you go sayin' that?” Mal asks as he steps across the room and sits opposite the pilot across the long interrogation table. The pilot smiles like it's obvious and Mal tries not to look awkward when he guesses it is. Most think that he should have been where the pilot is now, on the other side of that table. “The name's Reynolds,” he offers first.
The pilot grins and Mal thinks how it must hurt, it stretches at the burn that licks over his jaw. “Washburne. You can call me Wash, since I guess we're gonna be friends here. Not Hoban, though, because there's no one I'm that close of friends with.” He pauses and amends. “'Cept maybe my mom.”
“Since we're friends you may as well call me Mal.”
They warned him that Washburne likes to talk. “Mal. Sergeant. This isn't what you usually do, right? I can walk you through the process if you want. It goes...you ask pointless questions, I don't know the answers, you hit me for awhile. Rinse and repeat. Can we just skip all that?”
Mal stares at him. The crash knocked something loose, maybe. “You enjoy digging yourself a grave?”
Washburne loses the edge of humor. There's a sudden tiredness to the corners of his eyes. “Does anyone?”
*
Mal tosses and turns and it isn't usual for him. After all the time out on the field, he can fall asleep standing up and with bullets bouncing off the rocks not a few feet from him. Take the rest where he can. Tonight he fidgets, stares at the ceiling, clenches his eyes shut in frustration and huffs out a breath.
He will die for the cause, there's no doubt there, he always knew it, ever since he joined up. He's seen it in the others that he's fought alongside and has consoled himself that when they did die, it was doing what they wanted, making a difference. He has to assume that the Browncoats feel the same. He's never really questioned why they would feel that way, what made them fight for the other side - the so obviously wrong side - as hard as he did this one.
“I'm not a fighter, you know. I don't do this because it's fun or I get off on the rush. If I was doing what I really wanted, I'd be a hundred thousand miles away from this war. It never would have touched me or mine. You know they haven't fed me here in two days?”
Mal throws the blankets back and swings his feet to the floor, hissing at the rush of cold up to his ankles.
It was late then and they'd taken Mal out and Washburne back to his bunk. It's early now, all the metal feeling chill despite the heaters that keep everything to that perfect temperature. 72 degrees. Mal's used to it being a bit cooler back on Shadow at this time of year. Somehow the metal still feels too cold whenever he gets up in the morning, though.
He can't stop thinking about Washburne.
“I'm from the Core, actually. Just on the fringes, where the factories are. Worse than the Rim, I think. Actually, not that much different from being in a prison.”
The man talked for hours about nothing important and Mal found himself more rapt with listening than asking the right questions. Hours into the night and that hasn't managed to change.
He stops in the kitchen first. He's been given free rein to talk with Washburne - interrogate him - whenever he likes over the next twenty-four hours. Just don't overdo it. Get some rest in between. Mal's no good if he's exhausted. He just doesn't see the point in continuing to lie around when he can't sleep anyway.
He doubts he's supposed to be feeding the man. Starving would break down resistance. A talk and we'll see about feeding you ploy. Mal doesn't work like that. He doesn't walk over people hurt and dying in the field and leave them like that because they're on the other side. A bullet is more merciful. He doesn't want to leave them to suffer. Washburne just has the unfortunate luck to know something they don't.
He taps lightly on the door to Washburne's metal cell, a few high energy protein bars in one hand. There's no answer, not that he expected to hear the man calling for him to come in. He presses his hand to the scanner by the door and is granted access, the sound of the locks turning over seeming too loud. He's greeted with a moan in the whiteness of the room.
“Washburne?”
“When you deactivate the locks, the lights go on really fucking fast.”
It takes Mal's own eyes a minute to adjust and when they do, he can see that Washburne has his clenched shut. The pilot doesn't sound like he's been sleeping and he eyes Mal with suspicion when he opens them again. “I brought you in some food, figured we could chat a bit again.”
Washburne sighs. “Food isn't going to make me talk.” He pushes himself up to sit on the narrow cot but he's leaning against the side of the cell like it just takes too much effort. He doesn't try to stand or even hide the weakness.
Mal steps forward and hands out the protein bars, meeting the look of shock. Washburne hesitates, but he does take them. “This some kind of kill me with kindness thing, then? That's not going to work, either. Doesn't mean I'm too proud not to take these anyway.”
“Ain't what I'm doing. Just don't see the point in letting a man starve.” Washburne looks down and it's not like he's appeased, it's like he's giving up just that bit more. Mal clears his throat once the silence stretches. “Came to ask you a question.”
“Shoot.” Washburne unwraps one of the bars to bite off a chunk.
“Wonderin' why you're fighting for the other side.”
Mal is sure he's about to get some caustic reply with the way the pilot snorts on a laugh, but the approaching grin falls away and a quiet soberness takes over the man instead. He studies Mal for a long moment and Mal holds the gaze. This isn't a tactic, it's just curiosity.
“Okay... Once upon a time-”
Mal settles back for a long tale.
*
His dad had always been about hard work, providing for your family, sticking it out together, all of that. He could be pretty strict about it, too. Wash doesn't know how many times he was lectured or put over the man's knee for messing up those very important rules. He always got after Wash for having his head in the clouds and not trying his best.
Wash was twelve before he really realized that there were whole other worlds out there. His dad had always worked at the factory. When he was old enough, Wash's brother followed the man. His sister married. Wash was expected to join in the factories as well. It was like family tradition.
But when he was twelve he went on a school trip. Not far, just a hop over to Persephone. Busier, larger, classier. Most importantly, the planet had no pollution, nothing above normal levels. He could breathe and look around him able see a future, not just dismal gray.
When Wash got back from clear skies and clean air, he took one look at his dad and realized the man would die in the factories, that he was already halfway there and his brother would follow. That when he drew in a deep breath, he could feel the cough work at the back of his throat.
If life was about taking care of family, leaving them to suffocate and rot in the factories wasn't the way to do it. He'd decided right then that it wasn't going to be that way. He was going to get above and beyond all that.
*
“See, the way it is, Mal. The Alliance picks and chooses who it helps. We were no better than slaves or prisoners. They already had us under their thumb, for generations. They don't need to make themselves look good to us. I wasn't going to join the Independents, either. I just wanted to get my family out, somewhere cleaner. At least find a job to make the money to stop them needing to work in the factories.”
“So why did you join?” Mal finds himself rapt, arms crossed and leaning forward just a bit. He has a dozen questions. Why not have the terraforming equipment clean the air, why not use the free health care? It's not the Alliance that deals in slavery, after all. That all comes from the Rim.
“They contacted me. By then I was one of the best gorramn pilots, but I was flying freighters between planets, making more than enough to pay all the bills. I guess a friend of mine, back in the flight school days, told them where I was and that I was their guy.”
“What friend?”
Wash grins at him and Mal thinks he can literally see walls go up behind his eyes. “Ah ah. That'd be telling. Another thing my dad taught was that it wasn't polite to tattle.”
*
He hangs up the first time he gets the call. He knows what it is, he doesn't want to hear it and he can't believe that hundan gave him away. But he tells Wash that he owes them, the Browncoats, and this is what he promised to do. They gave him the planet, the facilities, the anonymity. He just has to give them this and this is what could help them win.
Personally, Wash thinks that he enjoys it, being their intelligence, telling them where to go and how to get there. Giving them the means. Eyes and ears of the 'verse.
He goes. His dad isn't around anymore but Wash still hears the lecture. No shirking duties.
*
Mal listens while Wash talks, on and on, all while munching on those protein bars. He remembers halfway through that he's got a job to do here and listens for any details that Washburne might let slip. There's nothing of use though, nothing that they didn't already know and Washburne doesn't once let it slip who the contact was or what the job was.
Washburne stops after awhile. Mal doesn't think it's the end of the story so much as that Washburne just looks done in, leaning against the wall and closing his eyes. After a moment of waiting, Mal looks around the tiny cell and spots the small plastic cup by the sink. There's only a trickle of water but it's enough and he brings the full cup to Washburne's side. There's definite heat when he presses his hand to the pilot's forehead.
“Oughta get a medic in here.”
Washburne jerks out a laugh as he takes the cup, looking grateful and amused at once. Behind that, there's bitterness. “He doesn't do anything. It's part of the interrogation.” Forget the rest of it, Washburne just looks scared now or maybe Mal's only just now paying attention to it. “They can't kill me but I can die of injuries from the crash well enough.”
“Duh liou mahng,” Mal snorts out. “You better watch your tongue, boy.” Alliance isn't that cold, no way.
Washburne is staring at him and the vehement denial on his face. “You don't even know what I'm here for, do you? I guess you wouldn't, just a Sergeant, on a need to know basis, right? Nice guy like you, Sarge, shouldn't be here. Gorramn planet killers. Ever heard of a planet called Shadow?”
By the time Mal can hear over the blood rushing in his ears, he can hear his own voice screaming. “Jien tah duh guay! You lying son of a bitch. You think I'm gonna fall for that, you can't even-” He's hitting Washburne, too, and he's not sure when he tackled the man onto the bed.
”It's nothing now. There's nothing there. They didn't even give the civilians a chance to evacuate. They thought it would destroy morale.”
Washburne's face is bloody under his knuckles.
It did the opposite.
The guards pull him off and away, and the dreadful wailing that he'd thought was Washburne solidifies into his own now wordless cries.
***
The wave has been trying to connect for hours. Every ten minutes it comes up failed and he tries again. He's stuck on a loop, he doesn't even think, just keeps doing it, again and again.
It's nothing now. There's nothing there.
A useless dried up husk of a planet. Planet the Alliance held together, giving them everything they needed.
*
It's summer but the crops aren't there. Bare fields and dust for the second year in a row. Mal can't quite understand what's going on, but he feels the tension in the place. Coming from his momma and the frustrations of the ranch hands. This is the first year he's supposed to start helping out, gotta start being man of the house now since his dad ain't coming back. It took his momma awhile just to sink that into his head. He spends most of the days helping to dig new irrigation ditches that won't be ready until next year.
She says they can't go on like this. They need some help.
It's an effort to unite the system. To right the wrongs put forth and lend the help that the outer planets need. He listens in from around the corner in the hall.
“The Alliance has made some mistakes. We're here to set them right.”
Even then, Mal thinks that anyone can own up to that and do something about it is something that he wants to aspire after.
*
The cortex terminal hits the ground and doesn't even have the decency to send off a shower of sparks. Nothing to do any damage, no fire to jump and singe him, encourage the anger that he feels rushing. He takes it out on the guard that's supposed to keep him out of Washburne's cell.
The pilot looks terrified of him when Mal barges in. Taking in the fresh bruises and split lip, Mal can't blame him. He just doesn't have time for it. He levels his gun at the man.
“Ain't got time for arguments or explanations. Let's go.”
Washburne is a smart enough man to know when arguing won't work. The fear doesn't leave but he gets to his feet, eyes warily on Mal as he steps forward, past Mal and out of the cell.
“Go straight down and to the left. We meet anyone, then you best duck down out of the way because I ain't hesitating.”
The answer he gets is Washburne doing as he's told, moving along metal halls in silence. The only time either speaks is when Mal tells the pilot which way to go next.
It's late. They meet one person, a guard doing his rounds. Mal doesn't hesitate and Washburne gets out of the way. The shot sounds loud in the halls but Mal is where he wants to be anyway, pushing past Washburne who stays pressed to the wall, and keys in the code for the lock. The doors slide open into the hangar and Mal grabs hold of Washburne to shove him in, pointing out the gunship in front of them.
“Can you fly that?”
“Yeah, but-”
“Go.” The gun in Washburne's face gets him moving again.
The chase happens outside of him. The Alliance won't let them go easily but Washburne seems to make it that way. He shouts orders at Mal that Mal blindly follows and gets them away with nothing more than a smoking wingtip. Mal should still feel angry through it all, he should cheer when Washburne knocks one ship down to the ground, but the fight's gone out, the anger that got him here is gone.
He doesn't know where they are when Washburne slumps in the pilot seat and switches over to auto. He doesn't know how long he's been sitting there or how long it's been since the Alliance stopped chasing them. The silence goes on awhile longer before Washburne's hesitant voice comes out.
“Mal...where are we going?”
There's another thing Mal hasn't really thought on but the answer comes like he always knew. “Shadow.”
He catches Washburne's gaping from the corner of his vision. “Shadow? Are you- This ship won't even make it that far. We used up half the fuel, that wingtip is liable to burst into flame and I am not carting you all over the gorramn verse on some insane whim-”
Mal's arm is across the pilot's throat, shoving him back against the seat. “Then we'll get a new ship. And you'll take me where I say.”
Mal lets up when Washburne attempts to nod. “I'll plot us a course.”
*
The gunship isn't meant for long pushes. Wash can draw it out to five hours before they have to land, the best he can do, the Rim planet Beaumonde, but he assures Mal that it's got the best scrap yards. They won't have a problem finding a ship to steal.
Mal is only half listening. It all boils down to him having five hours to realize that everything he's believed in is wrong. That it's all gone and they never even told him.
It's a long while before Washburne dredges up the courage to speak, though his voice sounds tired so maybe it's energy that he's been lacking.
“What's so important on Shadow, Mal?”
He wondered when this question would come up and he doesn't look across to the pilot. “It was home.”
“I'm sorry.” Mal shrugs but the thing is that Washburne really sounds it. Another moment and Mal looks over with a frown when he goes on. “That's what I was there for. We knew what was going to happen, and I was supposed to stop it but I couldn't. I never even got close. We couldn't even get word out.”
“Don't matter now.”
He jumps to feel Washburne's hand over his shoulder and wonders when the pilot even stood, if time was suddenly jumping forward or if he's fallen asleep.
“Taking a lie down, we should get to atmo in about two hours, you can wake me then.”
*
The Alliance doesn't need to kill prisoners when the injuries can be allowed to do it for them. Technicalities and loopholes that Mal's never considered before. Everything that's been going on in front of him and he's never noticed. It's thrown back into his face when Washburne struggles to wake up.
He's burning up again and Mal thinks that something must have got into his blood. When he gets Wash up and to the pilot's seat, he's not sure if the man will even be able to land them properly.
“I just need to wake up, that's all.” But Washburne doesn't hide the fear that well and Mal thinks the man is dying unless he does something.
They hit atmo too fast, but Washburne pulls them through and gets them docked. Mal gets them the clearance they need, but they won't be able to stay here long before the Alliance sends word out and the officials here clue in. He has to support Washburne's weight off the ramp, rolling his eyes to one of the dock officials as they pass.
“Gorramn pilots, can't stay off the whiskey more'n a minute on leave. Thinkin' we're gonna be here awhile.” Wash breaks into perfectly timed giggles and they only get a raised eyebrow as they pass.
Mal guides Washburne until they're out of the immediate crowds, away from the docks that are always packed no matter what planet Mal goes to. He settles Washburne down on a dirty looking bench, the pilot's mirth - Mal can't tell if it was feigned or real - has long since faded.
“Ain't no good to me like this, pilot.” Mal stands back to regard him and Wash returns the gaze wearily.
“Mean you're gonna leave me?”
“Nah. Just for a bit. Don't go getting yourself lost while I'm off.” He's already turning to jog back into the crowd and misses Washburne's quiet “Sure, Mal.”
It isn't hard to lift what he's looking for and he's not sure if it's just ignorance or if people think that a soldier wouldn't ever stoop so low. Mal doesn't want to pay, though, doesn't want to leave a trail to lead the Alliance here. He's not a soldier anymore, anyway. Least not an Alliance one.
An Independent one, maybe.
The thought stills him for a long while, his thoughts hover on it and his feet come to a stop in the middle of the docks. People just go around him on their way. Washburne is asleep when he makes it back to the bench, painkillers and penicillin in hand.
*
“That one,” Wash says and Mal listens. What does he know? The ship looks beat up, but if Washburne says he can get it to run and get it to take them to Shadow, then that's all Mal needs. They wait until night, sneak into the ship graveyard, and an hour later they're back up in the air and Mal hopes they stay there.
Washburne stays tense in the pilot's seat and the small glances he keeps tossing Mal's way are starting to set him on edge. He sighs. “Ain't gonna hurt you.”
Wash is giving him that suspicious look full on now. “Yeah. Because that's what all the probably insane Sergeants that kidnap me and cart me all over the 'verse say. Right before they snap and beat me to the ground. Again.”
“Nah,” Mal dismisses. “Ain't got no need for an unconscious pilot.”
“I feel a lot better now.”
Mal studies him. “That true?”
Washburne shrugs and Mal can still see the signs of sickness over the man.
*
Wash stumbles into the first bunk he happens across and stays there for nearly sixteen hours before Mal gets worried enough to go and check. He doesn't get an answer when he calls to the pilot, and the narrow thin bunk creaks under his added weight when he sits on the edge, his hand on Wash's shoulder to carefully shake the man awake.
“Oh...for the love of... Don't do that.”
“Or you'll what, glare me to death?”
“Might do.” But the glare falls away after a moment and Washburne elbows himself up to sitting.
Mal has spent most of the time sitting on the bridge, something about staring out at the unending black that lends itself to deep thought and he doesn't much want to sleep, afraid of what will be there waiting if he does. He's trying not to think too hard on where he's going, what he knows he'll see, and he thinks about Washburne instead.
The pilot moves with wariness around Mal. It's even there in the way he's sitting. The silence between them is uncomfortable and Mal might have known that Wash would be the one to break it while he struggles to think of a single word.
“You wanna make the kidnapping up to me, you can bring me some breakfast in bed.”
Mal looks at him, disbelieving. “Make it up to you? For saving your life dragging you outta that place?” He's getting to his feet though. He can make it up to Wash for shooting him down in the first place, something Mal is still convinced he's done. Make it up to the man for blindly following the wrong side. His whole life and he's been wrong. How is breakfast going to make up for that?
Wash's hand at his arm stops him before he can get off the bed. “I know you probably saved me taking me out of there. Just can't help wonder what you're gonna do later.”
“Still figuring that one out myself. It don't involve you, though.”
Washburne lets him leave and he spends the next days on flight to Shadow taking care of the man.
***
He doesn't know what he's been expecting. To be greeted with open arms, smiling faces. Green fields and cattle. He has to see it for himself. He can't even get off the ship to do it.
“The missiles hit the terraforming equipment.”
He stares out the windscreen on the bridge and he doesn't need to set foot down there to know.
“There's no one left here, Mal.”
His hands clench at his sides and his chest feels stuck, he can't take a breath.
“We shouldn't be here, either.”
Wash's hand rests at his back and Mal nearly punches him. He's not sure why he doesn't. Washburne should have been here to stop this happening. But Wash does better than Mal ever could at beating himself up over the fact.
“I'm sorry. I'm gonna take you somewhere safe.”
“Ain't safe...” he mumbles, barely noticing as the ship takes off again and soon enough Shadow is just another star. His own home - whole planet - wasn't safe. He doubts anything ever will be.
*
He stays in his bunk while Wash takes them...wherever. The only thing he can think about is how he can't think. It scares him when he tries to dredge up memories but his mind is blacker than it is outside the ship. He thinks he should be crying, his family is dead, everything he knew is a lie, he should be crying but he can't do that either.
He knows Wash comes to the bunk to check on him a few times, one time pushing him down to the bed and telling him to sleep, another time trying to convince him to eat, but Mal isn't much in the mood for either of those things. He lies back but won't touch the food Wash brings him, can't quite bring himself to respond much at all and Wash leaves, irritation and concern plain on his face as he looks back.
Mal's not sure how long it is until Washburne comes back again, but he's staring up at the pipes running along the bunk's ceiling when the pilot does.
“We're here. Time to get up. Getting a bit rank in here, to be honest, and I know just the shower's gonna perk you up.”
Mal frowns, the words he forces out too much effort. “Where's here?”
“Liann Junn. Home. Get up.”
“'M fine here.”
“Nope. Up. C'mon.”
The flash of irritation as Wash hauls him to his feet is the first thing Mal's felt for what has to be days. It doesn't last despite how he desperately wants it to. But this hollowness feels like the end. The worried looks Wash keeps giving him says he thinks the same.
He gags the moment they step out of the hatch, humid, heavy-with-dust air hitting him in the face. Wash does, as well, but he hides it better.
“This is safe?” He raises his hand to cover his mouth and Wash shoots him a lop-sided grin.
“In a manner of speaking. Welcome to my home, think I don't need to tell you why I left it.”
A glance around and he catches sight of the factories, billowing up smoke, off in the distance. What he doesn't see is a lot of green. Cement and metal and what looks like clay. He coughs his disgust. Wash gestures him to follow, up a stone walkway to a fair-sized house. There's plants on the stoop, but Mal can't guess at what sort.
Wash knocks before turning the unlocked door and pushing it open carefully.
“Hey, don't you know anyone could break into this place?” he greets the elderly woman on the other side with the bright smile that Mal is starting to think of as 'just Wash'. Nothing seems to get him down for long and it's both wearing and refreshing.
“Hobie?” Wash sighs but nods. “You're not dead?”
She's on him before Wash can respond, arms around him and Wash hugs her back. A shudder works through him and Mal wonders if he's trying to hold back the tears that Mal feels - why now finally? - working at him, while he watches these two and what he's not ever going to have again.
“No, ma. I'm fine. Really.”
It's awkward to watch as she steps back to study Wash, eyes narrowing at the burns that are still plain up the side of his neck, burns that Mal as good as put there, and he has to look away.
“And who's this?”
His gaze snaps back to them and he knows that she's taking in the uniform he hasn't been able to change out of. He falters, not knowing what to say, but Wash is there to speak for him.
“Uh... Mal. Good as saved my life. Never would have made it here without him.”
She studies him and Mal feels like bolting, feels like he's going to start shaking in a moment, the way she's sizing him up and deciding if he's good enough for her son. The same way his own mother would and it's suddenly all too much when she smiles at him. When she steps up to him, “Anyone saves my son deserves a good welcome then,” and hugs him too, the last week and a half catches up and he's crying the way he's been wanting to, embarrassed but he can't stop and, though she startles, she doesn't let him go.
*
She feeds them and gives them both a place to sleep, digs out fresh clothes and sends them both to shower. Mal feels exhausted by the end, the hot water nearly sending him to sleep standing. He pulls on the clothes he's been given to make his way to the room that's been set up for him, mind blank again but he knows it'll be fine. These unexpected people - unexpected kindness - he's found, will keep him going. He's just not sure how long it will last.
He's not even sure he's thanked them.
He makes his way along the hall towards the sitting room. It's dark save for a dim lamp and he can see Wash sprawled on one end of the sofa, head tipped back and mouth open on a silent snore. He smiles and sits next to the pilot, shaking him awake by the shoulder.
“Hey. Hear there's a bed down the hall with your name on it.”
Wash snorts. “All the way down the hall.”
“Need me to carry you?” he tries for a joke and Wash has the courtesy to laugh.
“Could just sleep here.”
Mal has to admit the sofa feels sinfully comfortable. He's in no hurry to head down to his room, either. “Never heard a better idea.”
***
He's not sure if he's been dreaming. If he has, he thinks they were good. Best dreams, best memories. The last thing he wants to do is wake up from them. He fights it as long as he can but the only thing he finds when he wakes is that this isn't so bad, either. It's been a long time since he's woken up feeling comfortable. Away from bunks where he might turn over and fall off, thin mattresses and hard springs, too much noise and not enough warmth.
He does almost fall when he tries to turn over but there's something hanging on to him and whatever he's laying on starts to shake. A familiar noise joins it.
Wash. Falling asleep on the sofa which he doesn't remember doing but he does remember thinking it was a good idea. Wash has got to be uncomfortable because Mal has him pinned to the corner, weight slumped against the man's side. He should be moving but he can't do anything to make the thought action. This is the first decent sleep he's had in the last week or more.
“You boys ever feel like movin', breakfast is in the kitchen, help yourself.”
Mal bolts upright in shock and Wash breaks into laughter. With his mother sitting right across from them, watching the Cortex, and Mal can't help wonder how long she's been there. Wash doesn't seem perturbed, still snickering, as he gets to his feet.
“C'mon, Mal. Time to eat.” Mal's stomach makes an unappealing gurgle. “I hear it's a good thing to do every few days.”
They make their way into the kitchen and Wash dishes them both out a couple bowls of what looks like oatmeal. Mal isn't quite sure what it tastes like.
“She never was the best cook. Had to learn on my own. But it's food.” Wash pokes at his. “Of some sort. And you need it.”
“Do all pilots treat their kidnappers like this?” Mal can't help but shoot back, the concern making him uncomfortable. And, more to the point, reminding him of why he'd stopped eating.
“Only the ones that save our lives while doing it.”
They're sat at the small table set in a corner and for a moment it's good. Wash is easy to banter with and relaxed enough to make Mal copy the example. For a moment before he remembers again, flash of barren wasteland behind his eyes and he has to look down, swallowing hard around the oatmeal. He doesn't notice the way Wash's smile falters or the hesitation before he speaks.
“We can stay here. It'll be safe. 'Till you figure out what you want to do.”
Mal shakes his head. “Ain't tryin' to impose.”
“You're not.”
*
Wash takes Mal up to his room and pulls open the closet.
“Lots left behind. You can take your pick, no sense in going back to wearing that Alliance outfit. Creeps me the hell out, I don't mind telling you.”
Mal peers into the closet. “Honestly, I think that creeps me out more.”
Wash looks insulted, or tries to but the grin keeps getting in the way, as he pulls out one of the brightly colored shirts. “Give it a try. Got into a bit of an obsession with these way back when I day dreamed about all those blue skies, clear water. Nude beaches.”
Mal raises a skeptical eyebrow, taking the shirt he's handed and guessing that he doesn't have much of a choice about putting it on. Wash grabs a couple things for himself and leaves Mal to dress in privacy, leaving instructions to just “Pick out whatever looks good to you.”
Mal has to give one good thing to this place and that's that it doesn't let him stay focused on anything for long, he seems to find himself more often being bemused. It's easier, though, to push the rest away. He doesn't want to break down again, he doesn't want to feel so strongly if it means feeling like that.
When he finds Wash downstairs - dressed in the least garish thing he could find, khaki pants and bright orange shirt, and he still knows he looks ridiculous - the man is sitting in the living room, his mom patching up the burns, treating the other marks and cuts. Mal feels a rush of shame that he never thought to do any of that himself. Selfish.
“Ow, ma...”
“You should have hit them back. Letting people pound on you like this...”
“I didn't exactly have a choice. I'm fine, though. Right here and I'm fine.”
“Your daddy was here, he'd tan you for going off in the first place.”
“I know.” Wash sounds exasperated, like she's given him this already and Mal starts when Wash's gaze catches on his and he's been noticed. “Mal. See you found an outfit.” Wash takes the opportunity of his mom pulling back to pull his loudly colored shirt back on, covering up the bruises that Mal doesn't want to look at.
Wash looks like he's pleading, his mom looks like she's irritated. Mal doesn't know if he should step in or make his excuses and hightail it out of there. He doesn't really want to be drug into this conversation.
“Thinkin' on taking a walk.”
“I'll come!” Wash is on his feet in a heartbeat and Mal is getting that bemused feeling again as Wash waves goodbye and as near to runs out the door as he can. “I love her and all,” he says once they're outside and down on the sidewalk. “But a man can only take so much, y'know?”
Mal nods. He knows.
“But I guess you don't want to talk about that. But you can't push it away forever.”
Mal can only take so much of Wash and snaps at him. “Ain't none of yours, pilot.”
There's a long silence. Mal wishes the pilot would just say something and get it over with.
“Lets go get drunk.”
*
He doesn't know what Wash was hoping to get out of the night. By the end they're both disturbingly sober and even Wash's cheerful banter has run out. He looks as irritated as Mal, like he's tried hard enough and it's done him in. They call it quits, down the last of their drinks and make their way back. Back to Wash's home. Mal only wants to get back to his.
“Place I ain't never gonna see again...” he mutters to himself. Maybe not entirely sober. His feet stop and he looks up, hoping for stars but the sky is too overcast.
“Mal.”
“Ain't so sure what I'm doin' here.”
“We'll figure something out.”
Mal smiles, finally looking away from the gray to Wash's face. The Independent pilot that seems to be sticking by his side and Mal can't for the life of him figure out why. “Keep sayin' 'we'.”
Wash shrugs. “Kinda drug me in with you. Running from the Alliance, breaking out and stealing ships. I know something they want and you just pissed them off.” Wash hesitates for a moment. “There's...already bulletins out for our arrest on the Cortex. I wasn't sure on telling you, I thought if we could just lay low for a couple more days.”
Mal thinks over this for a moment. It shouldn't surprise him, he's a deserter now. They could have tagged him with treason and been looking to put a bullet through his head. He's betrayed everyone he knew, every soldier that listened to him on the field, and he can't even feel guilty for it.
Wash is standing there, open and waiting. “Guess we'd best hightail it out of here, then. Hope you have some idea on where we're going.”
“I sort of know this group of people...” Wash says and slings an arm around Mal's shoulders while they continue on.
*
They make plans to leave the next morning. Mal hasn't been able to sleep, fidgeting again and stilling every time the old bed creaks.
He knows that Wash has already said goodbye to his mom, he caught part of the conversation.
“I'm not sure what I'm doing but I have to start somewhere. I'll take care, really.”
He left before he could hear too much, not wanting to intrude on things he doesn't have anymore.
He sighs, turning again and stilling as quickly. Sleep isn't going to happen tonight and he wishes, almost, that Wash would walk in through the door. The man is becoming far too steady of a presence at his side. Seems he knows what's going on when Mal doesn't have a clue.
“Gorramn fool. Losin' your mind.”
He jumps at the light tapping on his door, sitting up and narrowing his eyes at it, for a moment wondering if Wash might be reading his mind, the same moment relief washes over him.
The door inches open and Wash's head pokes around the corner. “Hey. You sleeping?”
“Must not be the night for it.”
Wash doesn't ask for entrance, slipping in and shutting the door, and Mal feels absurdly like a child sneaking around under his parent's nose.
It's easy to move across the bed to make room. Easy to draw Wash closer. Easy as anything to kiss the man, feel the little shock from Wash before Mal can practically hear him saying 'fuck it' and going along. He can feel where he split Wash's lip a week ago. He can feel bandages under Wash's shirt when he presses hands to him.
He breaks the kiss - what there was of a it, just a press of lips - and drops his head down to Wash's shoulder.
“It's okay. It will be.” And Mal realizes he's been saying sorry against Wash's shoulder and Wash is hanging onto him, holding him together because he can't do it himself anymore. He's fighting back a new flood of tears and gripping Wash hard enough that he's hurting the man but Wash doesn't flinch back.
He's got to find someway to let go of this.
*
They leave early. Neither of them mention the night before and Wash doesn't act any differently around him for which Mal is grateful. He doesn't need tensions and uncertainties of any sort added onto his plate. He's sure it would break him or snap him and Wash isn't the person he wants to be aiming that at.
“Time to get this show on the road.” Wash is grinning at him, making Mal roll his eyes, as they prep for take off. “Fasten your seat belt, traveler.”
“Don't think this thing has belts.”
Wash lifts his eyebrows before shrugging and the old ship lifts off the ground with a jerk that nearly pitches Mal forward off his seat.
“Well, hold on, at least.”
Mal glares at him as he presses back in his seat. “How long's this takin' us?”
“Should be about a week, gotta keep us on the outskirts, outta range of the Alliance.”
A week with nothing to do but think too much.
*
Mal holds it all in for the first few days. Wash pilots and Mal...just does what he can. They take shifts, keeping eyes on the radar, they're not looking for any unpleasant surprises. Wash snarks at him or tells him stories but otherwise it's quiet.
He knows exactly what he's going to do. He has to get it out, well, he'll take it out on the hundans that made it all this way in the first place. Let them tag him with desertion or treason or whatever. Wash is taking them to an Independent base and Mal knows after the first hour headed there that he's going to sign up. Get him a gun and one of those brown coats, point him at the Alliance and let him go. Revenge drives him and turns him cold.
“Mal, you need to stop it.”
He's been sitting in the pilot's chair, silent for he's not sure how long. Not so sure how long Wash has been in here with him, either. The lack of awareness is new. Scares him. He can't think on anything but getting to that base, getting that gun. Letting go.
Of course he knows what Wash means but plays dumb while Wash gives him a hard look. “Stop...?”
“Stop shutting down. Stop glaring at the console for hours on end.”
Mal snorts, bitter amusement rising up with him, along with something else, something that twinges in his gut. “You have too much time on your hands, Wash. Stop watching me, it ain't your business.”
He's not expecting Wash to spin the pilot's chair so it's facing the man, not expecting Wash to slap his hands down against the back of the seat on either side of Mal's head. Boxing him in and Mal feels the rush of adrenaline, only just reigning it in before he can snap out and punch Wash.
“It is. Has been since you drug me out of that cell.”
Since he tangled Wash all up in his issues. He swallows, teeth gritted. “Ain't asking you, Wash. Back off.”
He's not expecting Wash to grab hold and force him to his feet or to push him back against the lockers. “You don't get to save my life and then expect me to sit back and watch you do something stupid with yours. The only thing you're going to do is get yourself killed.”
There's fear in Wash's gaze. Mal can be slow but he gets it suddenly. Wash has to be as alone as Mal is now. All his stories and he doesn't talk about friends or loved ones. Mal knows that Wash can't go home now, it's a danger to himself and his mom, with the Alliance waiting to gun them down.
“Got ourselves quite a knot together.”
*
They don't bother with separate bunks after that. There doesn't seem to be much point in dancing around the issue anymore and Wash's warmth next to him or in him or around him, pushes the cold back and he can breathe again.
It doesn't change what he wants to do but it makes him take a bit of a step back. He doesn't want to throw himself head first into a firefight. Not because he's afraid of death or because Wash is. He's going to make the son of a bitches pay. He can't do that if he only ever gets to take one step out.
They don't talk on it. Mal doesn't see the point and he thinks Wash just doesn't know what to say. They both know what's going to happen when they land and they both know there's nothing to do to change it. There isn't a long goodbye after Wash lands them and takes Mal in, after everything is sorted and they're both ready to move on.
“Look me up, if you ever get out of this.” Wash is smiling, a bag over one shoulder and they're standing at the docks. The ship behind them is just waiting for Wash, his ticket out of here. The brown coat that Mal wears slaps against his legs in the wind. “Thanks again for saving my life.”
Mal returns the smile. “Thanks for saving mine.” Thanks for saving his sanity when he needed someone to lean on most.
He opens his mouth to say more. To tell Wash to come with him. He hasn't said that. Wash told him no without Mal having to ask. Wash hates the war while Mal feels drawn to it. He stays silent while Wash turns away, heading up the ship's ramp, the one that will take him out in the galaxy, someplace safe and that's better than what Mal could ask for. He waits until Wash is swallowed by the ship's black belly.
Mal thinks that if he ever manages to get out of this then looking Wash up will be the first thing he does.
Another Sweet Charity fic for prehistoric_sea. I hoped to have this done as a shiny Christmas thing since it became obvious I wasn't gonna get it done any sooner than that. I'm so sorry for the uber long wait! I hope it's got everything you wanted.
The story is... Mal/Wash wartime AU. PG-13, I suppose.
Big thanks to woodsong_1978 for the beta!
Evaporated
***
Isn't often that a man of his standing makes it to this sort of position. That is to say, a standing of poverty, straight from the Rim or damn near enough. It should have been that he was one of the first taken down when they sent off waves of soldiers. Lots did go down, folks he knew, people he'd worked with. Not him though. 'Cause he damn well believes in what they're fighting for, and he isn't going to be taken out so easily. He has it in him to make a difference.
Shooting down Independent skiffs makes a damn fine difference. Those land to air cannons are fast becoming his favorite thing and there ain't nothing like seeing the skiff that had been shredding his men breaking apart mid-air. They aren't like the Alliance skiffs, fast and just as deadly, but not as sturdy. Alliance skiff might get shot and take you down to the ground safely, pilots were fairly assured that they'd get out of it okay.
It's a rare day when an Independent pilot has the same luck.
*
He can't believe it. He's their best pilot. They gave him the position, trusted him with a mission, with information. Surprise attacks and bombings.
“You've got it in you, son. Turn the tide of everything. Save a world.”
He closes his eyes, praying because there is nothing else he can do. At least the water he hits douses the flames.
*
One thing he's always hated is the way his steps echo through all the empty space. Not to mention the way this uniform feels stiff against him, not his usual one, the one he goes to battle in. This one isn't broken in, it's done up fancy for special meetings. Makes him want to fidget, to pull at the collar, but he has to keep himself straight.
“Sergeant Reynolds.”
He jumps at the voice from behind him, so lost in the sound of his own steps he hadn't heard the sound of two others.
“Captain. Might be I'm a bit early,” Mal apologizes, voice formal, though he never can quite get rid of that drawl he's sure make his superiors - and several of those under him - look down on him.
The Captain shakes his head. “We have a job for you, Reynolds. Someone for you to talk to. We figure having someone he can relate to - on his level - might open him up a bit more.”
Mal frowns. “On his level?”
*
It hurts. What else is he supposed to think?
He let everyone down, but all he can think is that it hurts so who the hell cares.
Everything is harsh light that glints off flawless metal. He'd panic if it wasn't making his head spin so much. He nearly does anyway when the door slides open. When the officers walk in.
It's not just the crash he hurts from.
***
He gets a quick debriefing. Just what he needs to know and he isn't in a high enough standing that he needs to know a lot. He should consider it a compliment and privilege that they're letting him in on this at all. But the pilot sitting in the interrogation room is stubborn or plain stupid. Their own rules say they can't kill him and the pilot seems to know it. Those same rules say they can't permanently or seriously harm him, and the pilot knows that too. That doesn't mean they can't make him hurt at all.
But he's Rim and Mal is Rim. The captain is grasping at straws and Mal doesn't like to think that a Browncoat has them on tenterhooks. Of course he says he'll do it and all he needs to do is make the man talk, share the information they know the pilot has.
The eyes that meet his are full of resolve when he steps into the room. There's a darkening bruise under the right. What catches Mal's attention, though, is the rash of a burn that flares up his neck and flicks over the edges of his jaw. They haven't covered it. And he knows in a heartbeat, ain't sure how but he just knows, that this is one of the pilots he shot down. A week ago, into water. The burn is bad and looking slow to heal, but it could have been worse.
Mal shuts the door behind him and nods to the man. Anyone that can survive a crash in a damn tin skiff deserves a bit of courtesy. “Evenin'.”
The pilot eyes him, something shrewd in the gaze. I know something you don't. Sing-songed like a childhood taunt. Mal bristles inwardly. “You're not Alliance.”
“Now why do you go sayin' that?” Mal asks as he steps across the room and sits opposite the pilot across the long interrogation table. The pilot smiles like it's obvious and Mal tries not to look awkward when he guesses it is. Most think that he should have been where the pilot is now, on the other side of that table. “The name's Reynolds,” he offers first.
The pilot grins and Mal thinks how it must hurt, it stretches at the burn that licks over his jaw. “Washburne. You can call me Wash, since I guess we're gonna be friends here. Not Hoban, though, because there's no one I'm that close of friends with.” He pauses and amends. “'Cept maybe my mom.”
“Since we're friends you may as well call me Mal.”
They warned him that Washburne likes to talk. “Mal. Sergeant. This isn't what you usually do, right? I can walk you through the process if you want. It goes...you ask pointless questions, I don't know the answers, you hit me for awhile. Rinse and repeat. Can we just skip all that?”
Mal stares at him. The crash knocked something loose, maybe. “You enjoy digging yourself a grave?”
Washburne loses the edge of humor. There's a sudden tiredness to the corners of his eyes. “Does anyone?”
*
Mal tosses and turns and it isn't usual for him. After all the time out on the field, he can fall asleep standing up and with bullets bouncing off the rocks not a few feet from him. Take the rest where he can. Tonight he fidgets, stares at the ceiling, clenches his eyes shut in frustration and huffs out a breath.
He will die for the cause, there's no doubt there, he always knew it, ever since he joined up. He's seen it in the others that he's fought alongside and has consoled himself that when they did die, it was doing what they wanted, making a difference. He has to assume that the Browncoats feel the same. He's never really questioned why they would feel that way, what made them fight for the other side - the so obviously wrong side - as hard as he did this one.
“I'm not a fighter, you know. I don't do this because it's fun or I get off on the rush. If I was doing what I really wanted, I'd be a hundred thousand miles away from this war. It never would have touched me or mine. You know they haven't fed me here in two days?”
Mal throws the blankets back and swings his feet to the floor, hissing at the rush of cold up to his ankles.
It was late then and they'd taken Mal out and Washburne back to his bunk. It's early now, all the metal feeling chill despite the heaters that keep everything to that perfect temperature. 72 degrees. Mal's used to it being a bit cooler back on Shadow at this time of year. Somehow the metal still feels too cold whenever he gets up in the morning, though.
He can't stop thinking about Washburne.
“I'm from the Core, actually. Just on the fringes, where the factories are. Worse than the Rim, I think. Actually, not that much different from being in a prison.”
The man talked for hours about nothing important and Mal found himself more rapt with listening than asking the right questions. Hours into the night and that hasn't managed to change.
He stops in the kitchen first. He's been given free rein to talk with Washburne - interrogate him - whenever he likes over the next twenty-four hours. Just don't overdo it. Get some rest in between. Mal's no good if he's exhausted. He just doesn't see the point in continuing to lie around when he can't sleep anyway.
He doubts he's supposed to be feeding the man. Starving would break down resistance. A talk and we'll see about feeding you ploy. Mal doesn't work like that. He doesn't walk over people hurt and dying in the field and leave them like that because they're on the other side. A bullet is more merciful. He doesn't want to leave them to suffer. Washburne just has the unfortunate luck to know something they don't.
He taps lightly on the door to Washburne's metal cell, a few high energy protein bars in one hand. There's no answer, not that he expected to hear the man calling for him to come in. He presses his hand to the scanner by the door and is granted access, the sound of the locks turning over seeming too loud. He's greeted with a moan in the whiteness of the room.
“Washburne?”
“When you deactivate the locks, the lights go on really fucking fast.”
It takes Mal's own eyes a minute to adjust and when they do, he can see that Washburne has his clenched shut. The pilot doesn't sound like he's been sleeping and he eyes Mal with suspicion when he opens them again. “I brought you in some food, figured we could chat a bit again.”
Washburne sighs. “Food isn't going to make me talk.” He pushes himself up to sit on the narrow cot but he's leaning against the side of the cell like it just takes too much effort. He doesn't try to stand or even hide the weakness.
Mal steps forward and hands out the protein bars, meeting the look of shock. Washburne hesitates, but he does take them. “This some kind of kill me with kindness thing, then? That's not going to work, either. Doesn't mean I'm too proud not to take these anyway.”
“Ain't what I'm doing. Just don't see the point in letting a man starve.” Washburne looks down and it's not like he's appeased, it's like he's giving up just that bit more. Mal clears his throat once the silence stretches. “Came to ask you a question.”
“Shoot.” Washburne unwraps one of the bars to bite off a chunk.
“Wonderin' why you're fighting for the other side.”
Mal is sure he's about to get some caustic reply with the way the pilot snorts on a laugh, but the approaching grin falls away and a quiet soberness takes over the man instead. He studies Mal for a long moment and Mal holds the gaze. This isn't a tactic, it's just curiosity.
“Okay... Once upon a time-”
Mal settles back for a long tale.
*
His dad had always been about hard work, providing for your family, sticking it out together, all of that. He could be pretty strict about it, too. Wash doesn't know how many times he was lectured or put over the man's knee for messing up those very important rules. He always got after Wash for having his head in the clouds and not trying his best.
Wash was twelve before he really realized that there were whole other worlds out there. His dad had always worked at the factory. When he was old enough, Wash's brother followed the man. His sister married. Wash was expected to join in the factories as well. It was like family tradition.
But when he was twelve he went on a school trip. Not far, just a hop over to Persephone. Busier, larger, classier. Most importantly, the planet had no pollution, nothing above normal levels. He could breathe and look around him able see a future, not just dismal gray.
When Wash got back from clear skies and clean air, he took one look at his dad and realized the man would die in the factories, that he was already halfway there and his brother would follow. That when he drew in a deep breath, he could feel the cough work at the back of his throat.
If life was about taking care of family, leaving them to suffocate and rot in the factories wasn't the way to do it. He'd decided right then that it wasn't going to be that way. He was going to get above and beyond all that.
*
“See, the way it is, Mal. The Alliance picks and chooses who it helps. We were no better than slaves or prisoners. They already had us under their thumb, for generations. They don't need to make themselves look good to us. I wasn't going to join the Independents, either. I just wanted to get my family out, somewhere cleaner. At least find a job to make the money to stop them needing to work in the factories.”
“So why did you join?” Mal finds himself rapt, arms crossed and leaning forward just a bit. He has a dozen questions. Why not have the terraforming equipment clean the air, why not use the free health care? It's not the Alliance that deals in slavery, after all. That all comes from the Rim.
“They contacted me. By then I was one of the best gorramn pilots, but I was flying freighters between planets, making more than enough to pay all the bills. I guess a friend of mine, back in the flight school days, told them where I was and that I was their guy.”
“What friend?”
Wash grins at him and Mal thinks he can literally see walls go up behind his eyes. “Ah ah. That'd be telling. Another thing my dad taught was that it wasn't polite to tattle.”
*
He hangs up the first time he gets the call. He knows what it is, he doesn't want to hear it and he can't believe that hundan gave him away. But he tells Wash that he owes them, the Browncoats, and this is what he promised to do. They gave him the planet, the facilities, the anonymity. He just has to give them this and this is what could help them win.
Personally, Wash thinks that he enjoys it, being their intelligence, telling them where to go and how to get there. Giving them the means. Eyes and ears of the 'verse.
He goes. His dad isn't around anymore but Wash still hears the lecture. No shirking duties.
*
Mal listens while Wash talks, on and on, all while munching on those protein bars. He remembers halfway through that he's got a job to do here and listens for any details that Washburne might let slip. There's nothing of use though, nothing that they didn't already know and Washburne doesn't once let it slip who the contact was or what the job was.
Washburne stops after awhile. Mal doesn't think it's the end of the story so much as that Washburne just looks done in, leaning against the wall and closing his eyes. After a moment of waiting, Mal looks around the tiny cell and spots the small plastic cup by the sink. There's only a trickle of water but it's enough and he brings the full cup to Washburne's side. There's definite heat when he presses his hand to the pilot's forehead.
“Oughta get a medic in here.”
Washburne jerks out a laugh as he takes the cup, looking grateful and amused at once. Behind that, there's bitterness. “He doesn't do anything. It's part of the interrogation.” Forget the rest of it, Washburne just looks scared now or maybe Mal's only just now paying attention to it. “They can't kill me but I can die of injuries from the crash well enough.”
“Duh liou mahng,” Mal snorts out. “You better watch your tongue, boy.” Alliance isn't that cold, no way.
Washburne is staring at him and the vehement denial on his face. “You don't even know what I'm here for, do you? I guess you wouldn't, just a Sergeant, on a need to know basis, right? Nice guy like you, Sarge, shouldn't be here. Gorramn planet killers. Ever heard of a planet called Shadow?”
By the time Mal can hear over the blood rushing in his ears, he can hear his own voice screaming. “Jien tah duh guay! You lying son of a bitch. You think I'm gonna fall for that, you can't even-” He's hitting Washburne, too, and he's not sure when he tackled the man onto the bed.
”It's nothing now. There's nothing there. They didn't even give the civilians a chance to evacuate. They thought it would destroy morale.”
Washburne's face is bloody under his knuckles.
It did the opposite.
The guards pull him off and away, and the dreadful wailing that he'd thought was Washburne solidifies into his own now wordless cries.
***
The wave has been trying to connect for hours. Every ten minutes it comes up failed and he tries again. He's stuck on a loop, he doesn't even think, just keeps doing it, again and again.
It's nothing now. There's nothing there.
A useless dried up husk of a planet. Planet the Alliance held together, giving them everything they needed.
*
It's summer but the crops aren't there. Bare fields and dust for the second year in a row. Mal can't quite understand what's going on, but he feels the tension in the place. Coming from his momma and the frustrations of the ranch hands. This is the first year he's supposed to start helping out, gotta start being man of the house now since his dad ain't coming back. It took his momma awhile just to sink that into his head. He spends most of the days helping to dig new irrigation ditches that won't be ready until next year.
She says they can't go on like this. They need some help.
It's an effort to unite the system. To right the wrongs put forth and lend the help that the outer planets need. He listens in from around the corner in the hall.
“The Alliance has made some mistakes. We're here to set them right.”
Even then, Mal thinks that anyone can own up to that and do something about it is something that he wants to aspire after.
*
The cortex terminal hits the ground and doesn't even have the decency to send off a shower of sparks. Nothing to do any damage, no fire to jump and singe him, encourage the anger that he feels rushing. He takes it out on the guard that's supposed to keep him out of Washburne's cell.
The pilot looks terrified of him when Mal barges in. Taking in the fresh bruises and split lip, Mal can't blame him. He just doesn't have time for it. He levels his gun at the man.
“Ain't got time for arguments or explanations. Let's go.”
Washburne is a smart enough man to know when arguing won't work. The fear doesn't leave but he gets to his feet, eyes warily on Mal as he steps forward, past Mal and out of the cell.
“Go straight down and to the left. We meet anyone, then you best duck down out of the way because I ain't hesitating.”
The answer he gets is Washburne doing as he's told, moving along metal halls in silence. The only time either speaks is when Mal tells the pilot which way to go next.
It's late. They meet one person, a guard doing his rounds. Mal doesn't hesitate and Washburne gets out of the way. The shot sounds loud in the halls but Mal is where he wants to be anyway, pushing past Washburne who stays pressed to the wall, and keys in the code for the lock. The doors slide open into the hangar and Mal grabs hold of Washburne to shove him in, pointing out the gunship in front of them.
“Can you fly that?”
“Yeah, but-”
“Go.” The gun in Washburne's face gets him moving again.
The chase happens outside of him. The Alliance won't let them go easily but Washburne seems to make it that way. He shouts orders at Mal that Mal blindly follows and gets them away with nothing more than a smoking wingtip. Mal should still feel angry through it all, he should cheer when Washburne knocks one ship down to the ground, but the fight's gone out, the anger that got him here is gone.
He doesn't know where they are when Washburne slumps in the pilot seat and switches over to auto. He doesn't know how long he's been sitting there or how long it's been since the Alliance stopped chasing them. The silence goes on awhile longer before Washburne's hesitant voice comes out.
“Mal...where are we going?”
There's another thing Mal hasn't really thought on but the answer comes like he always knew. “Shadow.”
He catches Washburne's gaping from the corner of his vision. “Shadow? Are you- This ship won't even make it that far. We used up half the fuel, that wingtip is liable to burst into flame and I am not carting you all over the gorramn verse on some insane whim-”
Mal's arm is across the pilot's throat, shoving him back against the seat. “Then we'll get a new ship. And you'll take me where I say.”
Mal lets up when Washburne attempts to nod. “I'll plot us a course.”
*
The gunship isn't meant for long pushes. Wash can draw it out to five hours before they have to land, the best he can do, the Rim planet Beaumonde, but he assures Mal that it's got the best scrap yards. They won't have a problem finding a ship to steal.
Mal is only half listening. It all boils down to him having five hours to realize that everything he's believed in is wrong. That it's all gone and they never even told him.
It's a long while before Washburne dredges up the courage to speak, though his voice sounds tired so maybe it's energy that he's been lacking.
“What's so important on Shadow, Mal?”
He wondered when this question would come up and he doesn't look across to the pilot. “It was home.”
“I'm sorry.” Mal shrugs but the thing is that Washburne really sounds it. Another moment and Mal looks over with a frown when he goes on. “That's what I was there for. We knew what was going to happen, and I was supposed to stop it but I couldn't. I never even got close. We couldn't even get word out.”
“Don't matter now.”
He jumps to feel Washburne's hand over his shoulder and wonders when the pilot even stood, if time was suddenly jumping forward or if he's fallen asleep.
“Taking a lie down, we should get to atmo in about two hours, you can wake me then.”
*
The Alliance doesn't need to kill prisoners when the injuries can be allowed to do it for them. Technicalities and loopholes that Mal's never considered before. Everything that's been going on in front of him and he's never noticed. It's thrown back into his face when Washburne struggles to wake up.
He's burning up again and Mal thinks that something must have got into his blood. When he gets Wash up and to the pilot's seat, he's not sure if the man will even be able to land them properly.
“I just need to wake up, that's all.” But Washburne doesn't hide the fear that well and Mal thinks the man is dying unless he does something.
They hit atmo too fast, but Washburne pulls them through and gets them docked. Mal gets them the clearance they need, but they won't be able to stay here long before the Alliance sends word out and the officials here clue in. He has to support Washburne's weight off the ramp, rolling his eyes to one of the dock officials as they pass.
“Gorramn pilots, can't stay off the whiskey more'n a minute on leave. Thinkin' we're gonna be here awhile.” Wash breaks into perfectly timed giggles and they only get a raised eyebrow as they pass.
Mal guides Washburne until they're out of the immediate crowds, away from the docks that are always packed no matter what planet Mal goes to. He settles Washburne down on a dirty looking bench, the pilot's mirth - Mal can't tell if it was feigned or real - has long since faded.
“Ain't no good to me like this, pilot.” Mal stands back to regard him and Wash returns the gaze wearily.
“Mean you're gonna leave me?”
“Nah. Just for a bit. Don't go getting yourself lost while I'm off.” He's already turning to jog back into the crowd and misses Washburne's quiet “Sure, Mal.”
It isn't hard to lift what he's looking for and he's not sure if it's just ignorance or if people think that a soldier wouldn't ever stoop so low. Mal doesn't want to pay, though, doesn't want to leave a trail to lead the Alliance here. He's not a soldier anymore, anyway. Least not an Alliance one.
An Independent one, maybe.
The thought stills him for a long while, his thoughts hover on it and his feet come to a stop in the middle of the docks. People just go around him on their way. Washburne is asleep when he makes it back to the bench, painkillers and penicillin in hand.
*
“That one,” Wash says and Mal listens. What does he know? The ship looks beat up, but if Washburne says he can get it to run and get it to take them to Shadow, then that's all Mal needs. They wait until night, sneak into the ship graveyard, and an hour later they're back up in the air and Mal hopes they stay there.
Washburne stays tense in the pilot's seat and the small glances he keeps tossing Mal's way are starting to set him on edge. He sighs. “Ain't gonna hurt you.”
Wash is giving him that suspicious look full on now. “Yeah. Because that's what all the probably insane Sergeants that kidnap me and cart me all over the 'verse say. Right before they snap and beat me to the ground. Again.”
“Nah,” Mal dismisses. “Ain't got no need for an unconscious pilot.”
“I feel a lot better now.”
Mal studies him. “That true?”
Washburne shrugs and Mal can still see the signs of sickness over the man.
*
Wash stumbles into the first bunk he happens across and stays there for nearly sixteen hours before Mal gets worried enough to go and check. He doesn't get an answer when he calls to the pilot, and the narrow thin bunk creaks under his added weight when he sits on the edge, his hand on Wash's shoulder to carefully shake the man awake.
“Oh...for the love of... Don't do that.”
“Or you'll what, glare me to death?”
“Might do.” But the glare falls away after a moment and Washburne elbows himself up to sitting.
Mal has spent most of the time sitting on the bridge, something about staring out at the unending black that lends itself to deep thought and he doesn't much want to sleep, afraid of what will be there waiting if he does. He's trying not to think too hard on where he's going, what he knows he'll see, and he thinks about Washburne instead.
The pilot moves with wariness around Mal. It's even there in the way he's sitting. The silence between them is uncomfortable and Mal might have known that Wash would be the one to break it while he struggles to think of a single word.
“You wanna make the kidnapping up to me, you can bring me some breakfast in bed.”
Mal looks at him, disbelieving. “Make it up to you? For saving your life dragging you outta that place?” He's getting to his feet though. He can make it up to Wash for shooting him down in the first place, something Mal is still convinced he's done. Make it up to the man for blindly following the wrong side. His whole life and he's been wrong. How is breakfast going to make up for that?
Wash's hand at his arm stops him before he can get off the bed. “I know you probably saved me taking me out of there. Just can't help wonder what you're gonna do later.”
“Still figuring that one out myself. It don't involve you, though.”
Washburne lets him leave and he spends the next days on flight to Shadow taking care of the man.
***
He doesn't know what he's been expecting. To be greeted with open arms, smiling faces. Green fields and cattle. He has to see it for himself. He can't even get off the ship to do it.
“The missiles hit the terraforming equipment.”
He stares out the windscreen on the bridge and he doesn't need to set foot down there to know.
“There's no one left here, Mal.”
His hands clench at his sides and his chest feels stuck, he can't take a breath.
“We shouldn't be here, either.”
Wash's hand rests at his back and Mal nearly punches him. He's not sure why he doesn't. Washburne should have been here to stop this happening. But Wash does better than Mal ever could at beating himself up over the fact.
“I'm sorry. I'm gonna take you somewhere safe.”
“Ain't safe...” he mumbles, barely noticing as the ship takes off again and soon enough Shadow is just another star. His own home - whole planet - wasn't safe. He doubts anything ever will be.
*
He stays in his bunk while Wash takes them...wherever. The only thing he can think about is how he can't think. It scares him when he tries to dredge up memories but his mind is blacker than it is outside the ship. He thinks he should be crying, his family is dead, everything he knew is a lie, he should be crying but he can't do that either.
He knows Wash comes to the bunk to check on him a few times, one time pushing him down to the bed and telling him to sleep, another time trying to convince him to eat, but Mal isn't much in the mood for either of those things. He lies back but won't touch the food Wash brings him, can't quite bring himself to respond much at all and Wash leaves, irritation and concern plain on his face as he looks back.
Mal's not sure how long it is until Washburne comes back again, but he's staring up at the pipes running along the bunk's ceiling when the pilot does.
“We're here. Time to get up. Getting a bit rank in here, to be honest, and I know just the shower's gonna perk you up.”
Mal frowns, the words he forces out too much effort. “Where's here?”
“Liann Junn. Home. Get up.”
“'M fine here.”
“Nope. Up. C'mon.”
The flash of irritation as Wash hauls him to his feet is the first thing Mal's felt for what has to be days. It doesn't last despite how he desperately wants it to. But this hollowness feels like the end. The worried looks Wash keeps giving him says he thinks the same.
He gags the moment they step out of the hatch, humid, heavy-with-dust air hitting him in the face. Wash does, as well, but he hides it better.
“This is safe?” He raises his hand to cover his mouth and Wash shoots him a lop-sided grin.
“In a manner of speaking. Welcome to my home, think I don't need to tell you why I left it.”
A glance around and he catches sight of the factories, billowing up smoke, off in the distance. What he doesn't see is a lot of green. Cement and metal and what looks like clay. He coughs his disgust. Wash gestures him to follow, up a stone walkway to a fair-sized house. There's plants on the stoop, but Mal can't guess at what sort.
Wash knocks before turning the unlocked door and pushing it open carefully.
“Hey, don't you know anyone could break into this place?” he greets the elderly woman on the other side with the bright smile that Mal is starting to think of as 'just Wash'. Nothing seems to get him down for long and it's both wearing and refreshing.
“Hobie?” Wash sighs but nods. “You're not dead?”
She's on him before Wash can respond, arms around him and Wash hugs her back. A shudder works through him and Mal wonders if he's trying to hold back the tears that Mal feels - why now finally? - working at him, while he watches these two and what he's not ever going to have again.
“No, ma. I'm fine. Really.”
It's awkward to watch as she steps back to study Wash, eyes narrowing at the burns that are still plain up the side of his neck, burns that Mal as good as put there, and he has to look away.
“And who's this?”
His gaze snaps back to them and he knows that she's taking in the uniform he hasn't been able to change out of. He falters, not knowing what to say, but Wash is there to speak for him.
“Uh... Mal. Good as saved my life. Never would have made it here without him.”
She studies him and Mal feels like bolting, feels like he's going to start shaking in a moment, the way she's sizing him up and deciding if he's good enough for her son. The same way his own mother would and it's suddenly all too much when she smiles at him. When she steps up to him, “Anyone saves my son deserves a good welcome then,” and hugs him too, the last week and a half catches up and he's crying the way he's been wanting to, embarrassed but he can't stop and, though she startles, she doesn't let him go.
*
She feeds them and gives them both a place to sleep, digs out fresh clothes and sends them both to shower. Mal feels exhausted by the end, the hot water nearly sending him to sleep standing. He pulls on the clothes he's been given to make his way to the room that's been set up for him, mind blank again but he knows it'll be fine. These unexpected people - unexpected kindness - he's found, will keep him going. He's just not sure how long it will last.
He's not even sure he's thanked them.
He makes his way along the hall towards the sitting room. It's dark save for a dim lamp and he can see Wash sprawled on one end of the sofa, head tipped back and mouth open on a silent snore. He smiles and sits next to the pilot, shaking him awake by the shoulder.
“Hey. Hear there's a bed down the hall with your name on it.”
Wash snorts. “All the way down the hall.”
“Need me to carry you?” he tries for a joke and Wash has the courtesy to laugh.
“Could just sleep here.”
Mal has to admit the sofa feels sinfully comfortable. He's in no hurry to head down to his room, either. “Never heard a better idea.”
***
He's not sure if he's been dreaming. If he has, he thinks they were good. Best dreams, best memories. The last thing he wants to do is wake up from them. He fights it as long as he can but the only thing he finds when he wakes is that this isn't so bad, either. It's been a long time since he's woken up feeling comfortable. Away from bunks where he might turn over and fall off, thin mattresses and hard springs, too much noise and not enough warmth.
He does almost fall when he tries to turn over but there's something hanging on to him and whatever he's laying on starts to shake. A familiar noise joins it.
Wash. Falling asleep on the sofa which he doesn't remember doing but he does remember thinking it was a good idea. Wash has got to be uncomfortable because Mal has him pinned to the corner, weight slumped against the man's side. He should be moving but he can't do anything to make the thought action. This is the first decent sleep he's had in the last week or more.
“You boys ever feel like movin', breakfast is in the kitchen, help yourself.”
Mal bolts upright in shock and Wash breaks into laughter. With his mother sitting right across from them, watching the Cortex, and Mal can't help wonder how long she's been there. Wash doesn't seem perturbed, still snickering, as he gets to his feet.
“C'mon, Mal. Time to eat.” Mal's stomach makes an unappealing gurgle. “I hear it's a good thing to do every few days.”
They make their way into the kitchen and Wash dishes them both out a couple bowls of what looks like oatmeal. Mal isn't quite sure what it tastes like.
“She never was the best cook. Had to learn on my own. But it's food.” Wash pokes at his. “Of some sort. And you need it.”
“Do all pilots treat their kidnappers like this?” Mal can't help but shoot back, the concern making him uncomfortable. And, more to the point, reminding him of why he'd stopped eating.
“Only the ones that save our lives while doing it.”
They're sat at the small table set in a corner and for a moment it's good. Wash is easy to banter with and relaxed enough to make Mal copy the example. For a moment before he remembers again, flash of barren wasteland behind his eyes and he has to look down, swallowing hard around the oatmeal. He doesn't notice the way Wash's smile falters or the hesitation before he speaks.
“We can stay here. It'll be safe. 'Till you figure out what you want to do.”
Mal shakes his head. “Ain't tryin' to impose.”
“You're not.”
*
Wash takes Mal up to his room and pulls open the closet.
“Lots left behind. You can take your pick, no sense in going back to wearing that Alliance outfit. Creeps me the hell out, I don't mind telling you.”
Mal peers into the closet. “Honestly, I think that creeps me out more.”
Wash looks insulted, or tries to but the grin keeps getting in the way, as he pulls out one of the brightly colored shirts. “Give it a try. Got into a bit of an obsession with these way back when I day dreamed about all those blue skies, clear water. Nude beaches.”
Mal raises a skeptical eyebrow, taking the shirt he's handed and guessing that he doesn't have much of a choice about putting it on. Wash grabs a couple things for himself and leaves Mal to dress in privacy, leaving instructions to just “Pick out whatever looks good to you.”
Mal has to give one good thing to this place and that's that it doesn't let him stay focused on anything for long, he seems to find himself more often being bemused. It's easier, though, to push the rest away. He doesn't want to break down again, he doesn't want to feel so strongly if it means feeling like that.
When he finds Wash downstairs - dressed in the least garish thing he could find, khaki pants and bright orange shirt, and he still knows he looks ridiculous - the man is sitting in the living room, his mom patching up the burns, treating the other marks and cuts. Mal feels a rush of shame that he never thought to do any of that himself. Selfish.
“Ow, ma...”
“You should have hit them back. Letting people pound on you like this...”
“I didn't exactly have a choice. I'm fine, though. Right here and I'm fine.”
“Your daddy was here, he'd tan you for going off in the first place.”
“I know.” Wash sounds exasperated, like she's given him this already and Mal starts when Wash's gaze catches on his and he's been noticed. “Mal. See you found an outfit.” Wash takes the opportunity of his mom pulling back to pull his loudly colored shirt back on, covering up the bruises that Mal doesn't want to look at.
Wash looks like he's pleading, his mom looks like she's irritated. Mal doesn't know if he should step in or make his excuses and hightail it out of there. He doesn't really want to be drug into this conversation.
“Thinkin' on taking a walk.”
“I'll come!” Wash is on his feet in a heartbeat and Mal is getting that bemused feeling again as Wash waves goodbye and as near to runs out the door as he can. “I love her and all,” he says once they're outside and down on the sidewalk. “But a man can only take so much, y'know?”
Mal nods. He knows.
“But I guess you don't want to talk about that. But you can't push it away forever.”
Mal can only take so much of Wash and snaps at him. “Ain't none of yours, pilot.”
There's a long silence. Mal wishes the pilot would just say something and get it over with.
“Lets go get drunk.”
*
He doesn't know what Wash was hoping to get out of the night. By the end they're both disturbingly sober and even Wash's cheerful banter has run out. He looks as irritated as Mal, like he's tried hard enough and it's done him in. They call it quits, down the last of their drinks and make their way back. Back to Wash's home. Mal only wants to get back to his.
“Place I ain't never gonna see again...” he mutters to himself. Maybe not entirely sober. His feet stop and he looks up, hoping for stars but the sky is too overcast.
“Mal.”
“Ain't so sure what I'm doin' here.”
“We'll figure something out.”
Mal smiles, finally looking away from the gray to Wash's face. The Independent pilot that seems to be sticking by his side and Mal can't for the life of him figure out why. “Keep sayin' 'we'.”
Wash shrugs. “Kinda drug me in with you. Running from the Alliance, breaking out and stealing ships. I know something they want and you just pissed them off.” Wash hesitates for a moment. “There's...already bulletins out for our arrest on the Cortex. I wasn't sure on telling you, I thought if we could just lay low for a couple more days.”
Mal thinks over this for a moment. It shouldn't surprise him, he's a deserter now. They could have tagged him with treason and been looking to put a bullet through his head. He's betrayed everyone he knew, every soldier that listened to him on the field, and he can't even feel guilty for it.
Wash is standing there, open and waiting. “Guess we'd best hightail it out of here, then. Hope you have some idea on where we're going.”
“I sort of know this group of people...” Wash says and slings an arm around Mal's shoulders while they continue on.
*
They make plans to leave the next morning. Mal hasn't been able to sleep, fidgeting again and stilling every time the old bed creaks.
He knows that Wash has already said goodbye to his mom, he caught part of the conversation.
“I'm not sure what I'm doing but I have to start somewhere. I'll take care, really.”
He left before he could hear too much, not wanting to intrude on things he doesn't have anymore.
He sighs, turning again and stilling as quickly. Sleep isn't going to happen tonight and he wishes, almost, that Wash would walk in through the door. The man is becoming far too steady of a presence at his side. Seems he knows what's going on when Mal doesn't have a clue.
“Gorramn fool. Losin' your mind.”
He jumps at the light tapping on his door, sitting up and narrowing his eyes at it, for a moment wondering if Wash might be reading his mind, the same moment relief washes over him.
The door inches open and Wash's head pokes around the corner. “Hey. You sleeping?”
“Must not be the night for it.”
Wash doesn't ask for entrance, slipping in and shutting the door, and Mal feels absurdly like a child sneaking around under his parent's nose.
It's easy to move across the bed to make room. Easy to draw Wash closer. Easy as anything to kiss the man, feel the little shock from Wash before Mal can practically hear him saying 'fuck it' and going along. He can feel where he split Wash's lip a week ago. He can feel bandages under Wash's shirt when he presses hands to him.
He breaks the kiss - what there was of a it, just a press of lips - and drops his head down to Wash's shoulder.
“It's okay. It will be.” And Mal realizes he's been saying sorry against Wash's shoulder and Wash is hanging onto him, holding him together because he can't do it himself anymore. He's fighting back a new flood of tears and gripping Wash hard enough that he's hurting the man but Wash doesn't flinch back.
He's got to find someway to let go of this.
*
They leave early. Neither of them mention the night before and Wash doesn't act any differently around him for which Mal is grateful. He doesn't need tensions and uncertainties of any sort added onto his plate. He's sure it would break him or snap him and Wash isn't the person he wants to be aiming that at.
“Time to get this show on the road.” Wash is grinning at him, making Mal roll his eyes, as they prep for take off. “Fasten your seat belt, traveler.”
“Don't think this thing has belts.”
Wash lifts his eyebrows before shrugging and the old ship lifts off the ground with a jerk that nearly pitches Mal forward off his seat.
“Well, hold on, at least.”
Mal glares at him as he presses back in his seat. “How long's this takin' us?”
“Should be about a week, gotta keep us on the outskirts, outta range of the Alliance.”
A week with nothing to do but think too much.
*
Mal holds it all in for the first few days. Wash pilots and Mal...just does what he can. They take shifts, keeping eyes on the radar, they're not looking for any unpleasant surprises. Wash snarks at him or tells him stories but otherwise it's quiet.
He knows exactly what he's going to do. He has to get it out, well, he'll take it out on the hundans that made it all this way in the first place. Let them tag him with desertion or treason or whatever. Wash is taking them to an Independent base and Mal knows after the first hour headed there that he's going to sign up. Get him a gun and one of those brown coats, point him at the Alliance and let him go. Revenge drives him and turns him cold.
“Mal, you need to stop it.”
He's been sitting in the pilot's chair, silent for he's not sure how long. Not so sure how long Wash has been in here with him, either. The lack of awareness is new. Scares him. He can't think on anything but getting to that base, getting that gun. Letting go.
Of course he knows what Wash means but plays dumb while Wash gives him a hard look. “Stop...?”
“Stop shutting down. Stop glaring at the console for hours on end.”
Mal snorts, bitter amusement rising up with him, along with something else, something that twinges in his gut. “You have too much time on your hands, Wash. Stop watching me, it ain't your business.”
He's not expecting Wash to spin the pilot's chair so it's facing the man, not expecting Wash to slap his hands down against the back of the seat on either side of Mal's head. Boxing him in and Mal feels the rush of adrenaline, only just reigning it in before he can snap out and punch Wash.
“It is. Has been since you drug me out of that cell.”
Since he tangled Wash all up in his issues. He swallows, teeth gritted. “Ain't asking you, Wash. Back off.”
He's not expecting Wash to grab hold and force him to his feet or to push him back against the lockers. “You don't get to save my life and then expect me to sit back and watch you do something stupid with yours. The only thing you're going to do is get yourself killed.”
There's fear in Wash's gaze. Mal can be slow but he gets it suddenly. Wash has to be as alone as Mal is now. All his stories and he doesn't talk about friends or loved ones. Mal knows that Wash can't go home now, it's a danger to himself and his mom, with the Alliance waiting to gun them down.
“Got ourselves quite a knot together.”
*
They don't bother with separate bunks after that. There doesn't seem to be much point in dancing around the issue anymore and Wash's warmth next to him or in him or around him, pushes the cold back and he can breathe again.
It doesn't change what he wants to do but it makes him take a bit of a step back. He doesn't want to throw himself head first into a firefight. Not because he's afraid of death or because Wash is. He's going to make the son of a bitches pay. He can't do that if he only ever gets to take one step out.
They don't talk on it. Mal doesn't see the point and he thinks Wash just doesn't know what to say. They both know what's going to happen when they land and they both know there's nothing to do to change it. There isn't a long goodbye after Wash lands them and takes Mal in, after everything is sorted and they're both ready to move on.
“Look me up, if you ever get out of this.” Wash is smiling, a bag over one shoulder and they're standing at the docks. The ship behind them is just waiting for Wash, his ticket out of here. The brown coat that Mal wears slaps against his legs in the wind. “Thanks again for saving my life.”
Mal returns the smile. “Thanks for saving mine.” Thanks for saving his sanity when he needed someone to lean on most.
He opens his mouth to say more. To tell Wash to come with him. He hasn't said that. Wash told him no without Mal having to ask. Wash hates the war while Mal feels drawn to it. He stays silent while Wash turns away, heading up the ship's ramp, the one that will take him out in the galaxy, someplace safe and that's better than what Mal could ask for. He waits until Wash is swallowed by the ship's black belly.
Mal thinks that if he ever manages to get out of this then looking Wash up will be the first thing he does.