It was a long time since Mal had suffered an injury quite so incapacitating. Simon kept trying to explain that it would take time for the muscle to heal, and that he was incredibly lucky the bullet hadn't hit bone. Still, Mal decided, next time he'd try to get run through with a sword again instead. At least then he'd been able to walk.

Inara, he knew, was equally frustrated with his stubborn refusal to take it easy, or use a cane, or be in any way sensible. But all of those things felt too much like defeat. And so he hobbled around the ship, dragging himself up stairs, leaning on walls and furniture, because life went on.


"Mal, if you tear that wound open, it's going to take twice as long to heal."

"I'm fine."

"Are you? Let go of the chair and try that again."


When Simon came to Inara shortly after the incident to request the funds for a stasis unit, she said yes without even checking with Mal. Mal wasn't pleased when they finally told him, but he couldn't argue the logic.

Over the following weeks, all the crew members including Inara herself donated units of their own blood to be stored in stasis in case they were ever in need of a transfusion. Mal would donate his as soon as Simon was comfortable he had enough to spare.

Inara had high hopes that the nightmares would recede once that happened. She always felt better with a contingency plan in place.


"No, you sit down. I'll get it."

"'Nara…"

"Would you just let me get it for you, please."

"I am still the captain on this boat. I can get it myself."


Inara propped herself up on her elbow to watch Mal sleep. He was looking better, she had to admit. He had lost the frightening pallor that had tinged his features for days after the shooting and he was moving at much closer to his usual speed. And his restless energy proved he was feeling better, despite the fact that he still walked with a pronounced limp.

Still. It was a closer call than either of them liked to admit.

"You're fussin' again."

His eyes were still closed, but his voice was reasonably clear. She smiled and reached down to trace the line of an eyebrow with one finger.

"I'm not fussing. I'm admiring."

Mal opened one eye to consider her, then huffed a laugh. "You still can't lie worth a damn." He stretched against her. "I am fine, y'know."

"I know."

"Although I do appreciate you worryin' on me."

Inara scrunched her nose in chagrin. "No, you don't."


When Mal was confident his limp had reached the stage where it inspired more confidence rather than less he took the lead back from Zoe on meetings and missions.

Inara, it was clear, didn't entirely agree with his assessment.

He could see her trying to swallow her concerns and objections, but their goodbyes devolved into squabbles more often than not.

There was nothing he could do, nothing she could do. But he felt like an invalid every time she looked at him.