Title: Fighters
Author: ILB (an_ardent_rain)
Character(s)/Pairing: Mal (plus OCs)
Rated: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine!
Author's notes: Written for the LJ comm 2by2fics: challenge 2, prompts "danger" and "outsider". Enjoy!
Fighters
They are laughing.
The men behind him: big, greasy, drunken men with dirty clothes and red faces; they are splashing liquor around their table, laughing and jeering at the other patrons in the bar. Mal shakes his head, nursing a lukewarm mug of some alcohol he couldn't name.
He wants to leave, but out of some sort of morbid curiosity he stays.
They are talking now about the war. They support the Alliance; they always have, they say. "If I'd been fightin'," one says, lifting his drink above his head. "Boy, if I'd been figthin'... Those ruttin' browncoats wouldn't 'a' had a chance."
The others let out a raucous chorus of agreement, their voices growing louder as their talk grows more incendiary. It is clear they want to pick a fight.
"They's just stupid an' greedy," another man says. His words are more slurred than his friend's and he can hardly keep himself upright in his seat. "Wantin'... Wantin' more'n what they deserve. Blamin' their problems on Alliance when their problems is their own... Their own fault."
A few men chuckle. "Yeah," one agrees, his voice full of mirth. "An' I bet you could have beat 'em down, Moe. Put some lead through their yellow bellies an' showed 'em what's right."
"Tha's right," the drunken Moe agrees, sounding half-asleep. "If only I could 'a' fought. I'd 'a' shown 'em."
'No,' Mal thinks.
One of the men who is marginally more sober calls for another round, and when the drinks come there is loud cheering and a jumble of blurry words that not even the men themselves can make out.
They are still talking about the war; they are recounting the major battles and they are moving their hands over invisible weapons and they are dreaming up gore and destruction and describing it with wide, toothy smiles.
If only they had been there. If only they had fought.
'No', Mal thinks, hunching his shoulders and staring at the rough wood of the bar with unseeing eyes. 'You would 'a' been right there with me, paintin' history with your best friend's blood. An' you wouldn't like them guns after they've sung in your hands, after they've burned bullets through the bodies o' your enemies an' then your own men. No,'
And he hates them a little more now, hates that they are unburdened and talking of things they will never in their pathetic lives understand. One man has taken a gun out and put it on the table. It will not be much longer before something ignites and one of the more belligerent ones will all too gladly find an excuse to shoot or break or throw.
Mal blinks against the dim, orange-tinted light, staring at the backs of his hands.
"Hey!" One of the men is shouting, one foot on the seat of a chair. "Any browncoats in here? I think it's time we reminded them jus' which side they was on." His comrades roar with approval.
It is not Unification Day and Mal is already half-drunk.
He does not feel like fighting.
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