Author's note: I meant this to be a one shot but it got bigger. I'm going to continue with my one shots in "Connection" and make this its own story. Seriously, please review, even if it's just a quick "I liked/hated it". If it seems like Mal's acting out of character, well there's a reason for that. Virtual cookies to whoever figures out which Castle episode I reference!

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21 March, 2511

After five years of war, Zoe Alleyne figured she knew Malcolm Reynolds better than just about anybody in the 'verse. She'd seen him shot, stabbed, too damn drunk to spit straight, bare-ass naked, and on one memorable occasion, all four of them at once. In all that time, however, she'd never seen him anything like this.

His expression was disturbingly cheerful. "You ever heard of Sardines Zoe?"

"Sir?"

"Sardines," Mal repeated. He poked absently at something on the seat back hanging over him. "They're these tiny little fish they harvest on New Melbourne."

"I'm familiar with the concept, sir. What about them?"

"Well," he said, warming to his topic, "you see, they take a whole bunch of those little fish and stuff them very tightly in these tins." He mimed a packing motion with his hands. "Then, they toss in a handful of salt and seal the lid. It keeps em fresh for months. They can ship 'em all over the verse that way." He made a large, sweeping gesture with his arm. Close as their quarters were at the moment, he narrowly avoided smacking her upside the head.

"Ah," she said, nodding in sudden understanding. "Never thought I'd be lookin' at things from their perspective."

"My point exactly!" he exclaimed, flashing a slightly maniacal grin. "Although", he considered, growing serious for a second, "now that I think about it, those fish may have had more room than we."

There was something odd about his speech, she realized. Not that Zoe wasn't inclined to agree with his words, mind. The troop carrier, which looked about as old as the verse itself, was stuffed to the bulwarks with warm bodies. Up until a few weeks ago it had been nothing more than an old cargo freighter, but once the call came down that extra grunts would be needed on Hera right quick, it had been hastily retrofitted to suit the independents' purposes. Never mind that it didn't have any grav dampeners in the cargo bay. They needed boots on Hera, and they needed 'em yesterday, and if body had to withstand more than a few hours of microgravity to get there, then so be it. At least that's what the Brass had decided anyhow. Now she and near a thousand souls were flat on their backs sitting pretty on several thousand tons of high explosives, all ready to fight for the cause. Assuming this old clunker made it off the launch pad that is. She turned her head to consider the man strapped next to her.

"More room than us you mean?"

His eyes lost focus for a second as he shook his head. "We. First person plural," he mumbled.

Zoe blinked. "Shénme(what)?" she blurted.

And then he was back. "Did I say something funny?"

"Are you all right, sir?" she asked.

"Sure, why wouldn't I be?"

She looked at him then, really looked at him. Something was definitely off, but she couldn't for the life of her put her finger on what. He was, for lack of a better word, fidgety. Not that Mal was an unusually still man as a rule, he often had a quiet intensity about him, but he was generally able to contain most of his energy most of the time. It was a soldier's thing, she supposed, economy of movement. Soldiers, the good ones at least, learned right quick that there was a limit to human endurance and, war being the unpredictable beast it was, there was a good chance that they could be pushed up against that limit at any time. As there were few people in the 'verse who had the balls to deny that Mal was a damn good soldier, and those few would be dead wrong besides, he normally husbanded his resources carefully.

Now though, his feet tapped the wall in an irritating rhythm. He poked and pulled at his straps. He was, dear God, was he humming to himself? He was acting less like the disciplined Sergeant she depended on and more like a, well, like a demented nine-year-old on a sugar rush. Even the smirk he gave her when he noticed her watching was decidedly more crooked than usual.

Good Lord, was he drunk?

"I'm not drunk!" he exclaimed.

She raised an eyebrow.

"What", he whined. "Oh come on Zoe, I've been good! Nothing to eat or drink since last night."

Her second eyebrow joined the first. Since when did Malcolm Reynolds whine?

"Besides", he continued, his voice lowering conspiratorially, "I don't do well in zero-g, you know that."

Comprehension dawned. "You let them drug you."

"Would you rather I spend the trip dry heaving into your lap?" he pouted.

She raised her hands to her temples, trying to ward off the near inevitable headache. "Ai ya Mal, don't you know that those drugs mess with your head?" The use of his given name was a sure sign of her irritation.

"The ones for motion sickness?" He looked dubious.

She nodded. "There is one they call the 'Zombie drug'. It makes you very susceptible to suggestion."

"How do I know if they gave me that one?"

"Bizui (shut up)", she said. His eyebrows shot up, "bizui, sir", she added.

There was a brief silence.

"I don't think it worked", he quipped.

"Pity", she replied.

To her surprise he shivered. "Zoe, is it cold in here to you?" He pinched the bridge of his nose, that gesture familiar at least. "And why is everyone shouting all of a sudden?"

"Temperature's fine sir. A bit on the warm side even. " The hum of activity around them hadn't increased either. Worried now, she placed a hand on his shoulder. She could feel heat radiating off his body, even through the soft leather of his coat. His eyes were dilated, his face flushed. She slid out of the seat and had one foot on the ladder before he could say anything else.

"Where the hell are you going?"

"To get the medic sir."

"The hell you are." He struggled clumsily with his own straps. "We're supposed to break atmo in half an hour!" he yelled.

It was too late. She was already gone.

She couldn't find Charlie Davis, the squad's normal doc. He must've been in a different section. Poor planning on the Brass' part but that was to be expected. So she climbed all the way up to the officers' section, experiencing a brief wave of vertigo as the "wall" she was climbing suddenly decided to become the floor. So the officers could have artificial grav could they? Damn them, and damn Mal too while she was at it. If he hadn't've insisted on staying with his troops there would have been no need for meds in the first damn place. "Stubborn hu dan," she muttered, not quite sure if she was referring to Mal or her ownself. She managed to find Mal's immediate superior and demanded, quietly and patiently, to speak to a doctor. Lieutenant Chang sneered at her.

"What's the matter Zoe, that Sergeant of yours givin' you fits again?"

"No sir." She said, biting back a sarcastic retort. Arguing with this hu dan (bastard) wouldn't get Mal the help he needed; no matter how much she might have enjoyed it. "I think he's having a bad reaction to the motion sickness meds."

"What kind of reaction?" A soft, sleek voice inquired from somewhere behind her. She turned, and beheld a small man, clearly of Asian descent. His short hair was thinning and his face was spotted with liver marks. His eyes glinted behind tiny, yet costly, corrective lenses. Something about his nose and mouth put her in mind of a rat.

She despised him immediately.

He wore a baby blue lab coat that was slightly the worse for wear. A worn area on the front indicated that some sort of patch or logo had been removed recently. He stood just a hair too close to her, forcing her to crane her neck downward to meet his beady little eyes.

"Nervousness, sudden fever, and he said that people 'round us were talkin' too loud". She hesitated. "And there's something wrong with the way he's talkin," she said.

"His rimworlder colloquialisms too much for you Corporal?" scoffed the Lieutenant, amazing himself with his own wit.

"No." It hit her then, what had been bugging her the whole time. How could she have missed it? It was obvious. "He's lost his accent."

The unnamed doctor leered greedily, his perfect teeth strange in the pock-marked face. "Excellent," he said. "Please take me to him!"

Zoe lead him into the cargo bay, even more taciturn than usual. The doc on the other hand, giggled and twittered like a kid at Christmas.

"Oh this is so exciting! I was afraid there wouldn't be any on this trip!" he exclaimed.

"Any what?" she asked, not liking the sound of this at all.

Someone yelled from below, "Hey, I think this guy's having a seizure!"

The doctor's smile widened. "Any Readers, of course!" He glanced down. "We'd better hurry though."

She'd never moved faster in her life.

Additional author's note: I decided to make this part a two shot because it was getting too long. Don't freak out about the reader thing though, Mal is under the influence of a really nasty drug. (Seriously, look up the effects of scopolamine, but only if you're prepared to have nightmares. It's that bad.) He's not normally like this.

Any guesses as to what's going on?

Reviews are super shiny inspiration! Thanks for reading.