Author's Note: Newly edited because as I was rereading it I was somewhat horrified by the mistakes I'd made. But they're all better now, I think!
Disclaimer: I do not own Firefly.
Hoban Washburne peered at himself in the mirror, fingering his mustache. He'd been on the ship a couple months so far, and he was still slowly getting to know the crew, what few the captain had hired. It really shouldn't have been that hard to do so, what with there being only four of them total, but the captain and his first mate were somewhat . . . reticent, and the mechanic ― the captain had called him genius, but Wash had yet to see much "genius" work come from the man. Seemed like they couldn't go much far without something breaking, so he figured it was a good thing they'd yet to take on a serious job.
Of course, the mechanic didn't interest Wash so much. Neither did the captain, if he was being honest with himself. The person who piqued his interest was the first mate, a warrior woman in the truest sense of the word ― she'd fought in the big war, the one everyone was still getting over. Granted, her side had lost, but she was still alive, and that was something most of the Independents couldn't boast. It was something Wash had gathered the captain wouldn't have been able to boast had it not been for this warrior woman, Zoe Alleyne.
Course, she wasn't above reminding the captain of that every so often, to keep him in line.
Out in the dining area, the woman in question peered down the hallway toward the bunks as she set the table. "Where's that pilot?" she mused, still a bit uncomfortable with his nickname, yet hating his given one. "Usually he's the first one down for breakfast."
Bester shrugged, not having noticed nor really caring about the goings-on of the rest of the crew. "Dude, where's the captain? I finally got the engine fixed, so we should be able to at least get to the drop-off point."
Zoe leveled a cool stare at him. "Don't," she warned in her best corporal's voice, "call me 'dude.' Ever again."
He looked up, the promise of certain death in her voice having caught his attention. Her steely glare reinforced that image, and he nodded eagerly. "Yeah, sure, no problem, d— ma'am."
She gave a quiet hmph, but went back to setting the table for breakfast. Mal entered the room just as she set the out last serving bowl, and she greeted him with a pleasant, "Mornin', sir," as she turned back for silverware.
He returned the greeting before turning a piercing gaze on his mechanic. "Bester, you got that part fixed?"
"Yep, should last us to the drop-off point."
"Should? Or will?" Mal turned to Zoe. "Does 'should' sound very helpful right now, with a job hangin' in the balance?"
She smiled. "Honestly, sir—" She cut herself off, dropping the utensils in shock as Wash entered the room. Mal, flummoxed by his typically unflappable first mate's astonishment, turned to see what had her in such a quandary. He, too, was stunned into silence.
Bester glanced up. "Dude, who's the new guy?"
Wash glanced over the trio, obviously self-conscious, but trying his best to cover it. "What? A man can't shave his face without bein' looked at like he grew an extra head?"
Zoe was the first to shake it off, stooping down to pick up the dropped silverware at her feet. "I had wondered why you weren't the first one down for breakfast this morning. Frankly, I'm surprised we hadn't heard the sound of heavy machinery comin' from your bunk."
"It's just hair," he replied defensively. Zoe merely gave a snort at that, setting out the forks and spoons on the table.
"Seemed like you were pretty attached to that lip ferret," Mal pointed out. "Didn't figure you to be partin' with it anytime soon."
Wash cleared his throat and sat down at the table. "Just felt like somethin' I should do. Wasn't gettin' me anywhere, and food was always gettin' stuck in the damn thing. Truth is, it's probably simpler to take care of it like this, shavin' the entire thing instead of havin' to tiptoe around it."
"Well, let's hope that mustache wasn't good luck or nothin', 'cause we're all fixed up enough to get us to the drop-off point. So if somethin' goes wrong, you're gonna need to stay used to tiptoein' 'round it." Mal grabbed the serving bowl just as Wash was reaching for it and dumped a healthy portion onto his own plate. "After you eat, get us a course set."
"No problem."
Not two hours later, he admitted, "We may have a problem."
"You think?" Mal snarled, watching the vid feed from behind them. "But you can keep us out of range, right?"
"Should." Wash wrestled with the controls, keeping one eye on where they were going and the other on the pirate vessel following them. "Their ship isn't much better off than this one, but it isn't as . . . flexible as Serenity. And of course, you got me." He deftly maneuvered the Firefly into a small crevice with a sharp turn, and their pursuers zipped right past, unable to turn on a dime as could the smaller craft.
"Right." Mal grunted as they skimmed the side of the niche. "Is it just me, or is this passway narrowin'?"
"It's narrowing, sir," Zoe replied.
"You're both so helpful," Wash ground out, abruptly changing the direction of the ship from forward to up. "Either of you wanna take the helm?"
Bester stumbled up the steps to the bridge. "Dudes, what's goin' on?"
"Pirates wantin' to deliver our cargo to get our cut. Now, you wanna eat sometime this week, get back to the engine room an' make sure we stay in one piece enough to do the job." Mal pointed back the way the mechanic had come, but Bester didn't take the hint.
"I can't do a gorram thing with the way we're bein' jerked around," he complained, just as Wash jerked the controls to the side, spinning the ship around. Bester slammed into the stairwell wall, and Mal about fell down the stairs behind him, but Zoe merely widened her stance, only showing instability by grabbing the back of the pilot's chair.
"Wash!" Mal yelped, trying to regain his balance.
"Much as it seems like it, cap'n, I really wasn't tryin' to prove a point. Just tryin' to avoid those nasties out there."
Mal shot him a dark look, but Zoe said quietly, "Not that he wouldn't be utterly vindicated in tryin' to prove a point, but that wasn't his entire goal. We almost ran into them, which is what I'm sure they were goin' for. They're a heftier ship, so in a collision, they'd be better off." Mal looked at her in surprise at her defense of the pilot, which she ignored. Truth be told, it surprised her too, but she'd been getting used to the way he bothered her. At first, his presence irked her to no end, always managing to capture her attention when she least needed her attention diverted. However, over the last couple of months, she'd come to terms with his constant existence on her radar, even admitting that maybe it wasn't as bothersome as she'd originally thought. The corporal in her kept telling her that he was an unnecessary and possibly fatal distraction, but some other part of her, the part she tried her hardest to keep under wraps, whispered that it was likely this kind of distraction was exactly what she needed. And now that he'd finally shaved that ugly lip ferret off. . .
"Thank you." Wash wrenched the controls back the other way, throwing Mal and Bester around again, but Zoe stood still, both hands gripping the back of the chair. He smothered a triumphant smile over the fact she was slowly warming up to him as he gave the steering another hearty pull to change course when their trackers locked onto their previous one.
"For what?" For one heart-stoping moment, Zoe thought maybe she'd spoken aloud.
"Validatin' my story." Another sharp turn had Bester flung down the hallway, which he took as a hint to return to the engine room, and Mal desperately grabbing for the copilot's chair. "An' keepin' my seat stationary."
Zoe glanced down in bemusement; sure enough, both chairs were on wheels, which wasn't terribly helpful for keeping chaotic flying as straight as possible. "My pleasure." Then something off to the side caught her attention. "Wash," she said urgently, leaning down and pointing.
With no small effort, he kept his focus on her point of interest and not on the fact that she was so close he could smell her. He smiled grimly. "Perfect." This turn was gentler, and Mal stared at the two.
"Uh, that's a cliff we're headin' towards," he announced, rather unnecessarily.
"Yep," Wash agreed, flipping switches to get a little more speed from the already-groaning vessel.
"Why're we flyin' into a big cliff? Last I heard, spaceships don't do too well in a fight against rock." Mal grew increasingly nervous the closer they came, and when they were just about to crash, he yelped, "Wash!"
At the last possible second, the pilot jerked the controls up, so Serenity was flying vertical. In the rearview vid feed, the three on the bridge watched as the pirate vessel, unable to maneuver as delicately as the spry Firefly, collided with the very same rock Mal had been so concerned about. "Huh."
Zoe straightened, a slightly smug smile – although she would argue it was merely a satisfied one – gracing her lips, and Wash sat back, easing up on the controls, now that danger was momentarily averted. Their pride, however, soon dissipated as a clanking sound came from the back end of the ship. They all sighed, and Wash searched for a place to set their transportation down. It wasn't the first time they'd heard that noise, and by now they knew enough to get out of the sky or Serenity would do it for them.
As soon as they were settled, Mal was striding down the corridor, and Zoe and Wash could hear him yelling for quite some time. "Bester! What the guay happened! You told me we'd last 'til the drop-off point, and this sure ain't it. You'd best have a good gorram excuse. . ."
At last his voice tapered off, and Zoe stepped back from behind the chair. Wash swiveled it around to look at her. "You said my name," he noted. She frowned at him. "I've been on this ship for nearly three months, and this was the first time you've ever called me by name."
"Seemed the thing to do." She was holding herself as tall as she possibly could, as if to make amends for her lapse in formality just a few moments before. "You did well back there. You know, for your first haphazard flight from those chasin' us." As she spoke, she kept remembering the strength shown in his arms, the muscles corded as he struggled – and succeeded – at gracefully avoiding their shadows. The smell of him when she leaned down close and pointed out the cliff. The instantaneous understanding of her half-formed plan simply by her speaking his name. It disconcerted her, both that she hadn't noticed before and that she noticed now.
Her uneasiness was plain to see, but Wash held her gaze, curious to see how uncomfortable he could make her before she backed down (and, if he was being truthsome, hoping to give her back a little of what she'd given him his first few weeks). Slowly, as the silence stretched on, he started to smile.
He peered into his mirror later that night, fingering his bare upper lip. He definitely looked much different; he'd been growing that thing out since he'd learned hair grew there. He felt a little different, although that might not have so much to do with his attachment to his mustache, he admitted to himself as he looked over his shoulder to where the warrior woman slept soundly. He returned to the bed, whereupon she immediately drew close to him. He smiled. He could get used to this, he silently mused, rubbing his upper lip. Maybe the mustache wasn't his good luck charm after all.