Disclaimer: I don't own it. Everything you recognise belongs to Joss. No infringement
is intended and I'm certainly not making any money from this story.
Summary: A conversation on the catwalk.
Author's note: I have a few of these written already, so this will be updated quickly to begin
with, later on it will be longer between parts. Feedback is appreciated. Also, the name Malcolm
is from Gaelic, meaning servant (disciple, devotee, follower) of Saint Columba.


Fields of War

by Hereswith

Up he goes, up the steps, and he's heading towards her. There's little grace to his gait, but the set of
his shoulders speaks of more than he would ever utter in words, and that has her attention. She sees
the soldier in him, the years peeled away like apple skin, the carnage of the battlefield beneath his feet
and the lines he won't cross. Mal, she thinks, is bad in the Latin, but Malcolm is someone who follows
a man of God.

"Don't recall I hired you to loiter," he comments, halting right next to her.

"You didn't hire me. I was there and I became." She looks up at him. It's a funny angle, since she's
lying on her side on the catwalk above the cargo bay, and the scuffed, knee-high boots and his legs
take up most of her view. He looms over her like a giant in the tales from Earth-that-was. "It's a
beautiful day for sailing. No shallows or sea-monsters. And she likes to have the helm."

It takes him aback for a moment, but he accepts it, with a short, low laugh. "Between you and Kaylee,
I reckon you've got her figured out."

"I reckon we have," she replies, in a tone similar to his.

He shifts to lean against the railing, careful not to trample on her spread-about hair. "How are the
mice faring?"

She sits up, curling in on herself at the mention. "Dying. They always were, but it won't be as painful
now. Simon promised to help."

"That's a kindness."

It hovers between them, then, in the wake of his voice, what happened and what she nearly did, and
she absently rubs her arm where the grating has marked it crosshatched. "He wasn't a threat," she
says, as if he's asked her to explain. "Not armed, or dangerous. But he was like them, and I couldn't
tell him apart." Breathing in, she shudders. "They had their friendly faces on. Said it would be fine,
I didn't have to be afraid. But they lied. The equation wasn't true. Not large enough to hold so much
inside. Not strong enough to make it stop."

She doesn't realise how hard she's rubbing, or that her nails are scratching her flesh, until he stills
her hand with his, and she feels the sting of it. He's crouched down close to her and she tenses,
but his grasp is loose and warm, and her fingers are terribly chilled.

"What those hún dàn did to you, that was all kinds of wrong, but ain't none of it your fault." He
shakes his head. "Takes strength aplenty to survive such treatment and keep even a piece of your
own self intact. Not everybody does."

The war is a darkness in him, more tangible than it usually is, a sweep of valley where the sun won't
rise, and the scars from each of the skirmishes he's fought ever since. Niska, and the hours that
stretched out without mercy, and seemingly without end. She doesn't know the details, he guards
them well and she won't pry that deeply, but she knows that he comprehends, in a way Simon can't.
His dreams, like hers, are full of screaming.

"A person," she says, because that is another memory, painted in a different hue. Pieces can be
fitted together, to form a pattern again. "Actual, if not quite whole."

"I haven't changed my opinion," he answers, "and I don't plan to."

She relaxes a fraction and, noting that, he removes his hand. When it's gone, she almost wishes it back.
"I put the job at risk. I'm sorry."

"Don't be," he says, like it's that easy, like he lets it be that easy, this time. He stands, gesturing at her
arm. "You ought to have that looked to."

"He'll fret," she mutters, and wrinkles her nose.

"No doubt," he agrees and, after a brief pause, "How about I convince the good doctor there's some
matter needs discussing, away from the infirmary?"

The tiniest of grins escapes her. "Would you?"

"With nary a twinge of guilt, darlin'." He winks at her, a glint of humour in his eyes. "So, are you coming?"

And she's up, and with him, quick as a firefly.