AN: Apologies for the delay. Ironically, I was getting more writing done when I was frantically in the middle of school, finals, AND work. Now I've just got work...funny how that turns out. Anyhow, I'm back, and hopefully there won't be such a large delay in the immediate future. I make no promises, however, as I've been very involved getting my roomies hooked on Doctor Who, Firefly...and trying to get through all 9 seasons of the X Files myself. :D Thanks for the reading, folks! For those of you who don't know already, a bit of shameless self promotion: I wrote a one-shot Eight Doctor/Time War bit. Look for it in my profile. It's a bit rough, and I may polish it up later, but overall I'm rather pleased with it. Found all sorts of Eighth Doctor books, and find I may have to write a fic with him in in the future...because Paul McGann is so very, very pretty. ;)

Amusing Doctor Quote of the Day (Actually, this is an amusing companion quote. Tegan, to the Fifth Doctor, in "The Visitation"): Call yourself a Time Lord! A broken clock keeps better time than you do; at least it's accurate twice a day, which is more than you ever are!

Amusing Jayne Quote of the Day: "What'd you all order a dead guy for?"

"I have wandered, I have rambled
I have crossed this crowded sphere,
And I've seen a mass of problems
That I long to disappear.
Now, all I have's this anguished heart,
For you have vanished too.
Oh, my girl, my girl, my precious girl,
Just what is this man to do?"
–Murray Gold, "Love Don't Roam"

When a job was done, and the world was saved (at least until the next time) the Doctor really preferred to leave as quickly and quietly as he could. Saved a lot of fuss and extended goodbyes. And parties. He didn't really like parties. Loved people, and interacting with them, but not at parties. They always seemed to go wrong, somehow. And someone was always trying to get him to dance when he didn't want to.

But there was no slipping off from Three Hills. For one, Mal wasn't about to leave before he got paid for risking lives and limbs. And then people from the nearby towns began pouring into the station, bringing food and coming to have a look at the heroes. Ricky, as a local, achieved special status almost immediately–which Mal seemed content to let him have so long as the food kept coming. The Doctor noticed that the captain was awfully good at making sure that a steady stream of the stuff got tucked away on the ship without being obvious about it, especially things made up with vegetables and fruit. A clever way of making sure his crew stayed well-fed on something other than protein extracts. The Doctor silently applauded Mal's imagination.

He wasn't very interested in mingling, though. He didn't think much of Zeke (who, despite bearing the name Harkness, struck the Doctor as a spineless fish) and as fascinating as the townsfolk probably were (it was still all very Tombstone, from what he could see), the Doctor found that what he really wanted was the TARDIS. And a shower. So he waited until everyone was thoroughly distracted by the impromptu celebration and slipped away into Serenity's cargo hold, where his own ship sat quietly. It was easy enough to wait until no one was looking to unlock the door and slip inside.

The lights came up softly as he shut the door behind him, and a gentle hum filled his ears. The presence of the TARDIS, never completely gone from his mind, loomed large and comforting. Much as he ached for his lost planet, as much as he missed it and everything else lost to the War, this was truly home, and had been since the day he stole her and ran away to see the universe. As long as he had the TARDIS, he would be all right.

Crossing to the center console, he reached out to run his fingers along the curve of it, the Gallifreyan coral inlay he'd installed before the end of the War warm beneath his fingers. "Hello, old girl," he said softly. "Everything all right?" Past companions had accused him of daftness, speaking to the TARDIS as though it were another person. Very few of them ever understood that, to him, she was–and so he tried not to carry on extended conversations with his ship unless he was completely alone with her.

The ship's presence flared briefly, a burst of color in his head that told him everything was just fine. Then, oddly, an image of little River Tam's face appeared, very briefly, followed by something that felt...curious. The TARDIS was intrigued by the strange, broken girl that wandered the ship outside. The Doctor wondered a little at it. The TARDIS usually didn't acknowledge other beings unless they actually came inside.

The moment passed, though, as a burst of concern at the blood on his clothing chased away thoughts of River. The Doctor patted the console. "Not mine," he assured the ship. "Though I'd appreciate it if you'd open up the laundry for me. And the baths. And while I'm there, I want you to hook up to whatever passes for the local databases. I need to do some research, before I really put my foot into it. "

A hum of agreement came, and the Doctor was aware of a slight shift from beyond the door at the other end of the control room, opposite the entrance. He sent up a mental thanks, and left the console to pass through the door.

The interior of the TARDIS was vast, and forever shifting and changing as his needs and the ship's changed. Some days he was content to ramble through the labyrinthine halls, looking for the room he wanted and pausing in delight as he rediscovered old haunts, but when he was in a bit of a hurry the ship could summon nearly any room he liked straight to the door off the main console room. Only a few rooms lay locked beyond even his access, some at his specific request, others for safety reasons. One of these was the Cloister Room, where once the bells of Gallifrey tolled to call him home. The room itself still existed, but with its link to his home planet destroyed in both space and time it was dangerously unstable–and, in truth, it was too painful to visit. He hadn't liked the Cloister much before the War, as it was one of the means by which his fellow Time Lords had sought to bring him under their control, and now that it was mixed up with everything else he felt for his lost planet...well, best it stay locked away.

The laundry was nothing exotic. In fact, it bore a distinct resemblance to your average London laundromat–cramped and a bit dingy–except for the fact that the machines it contained cleaned nearly any form of stain from any form of clothing, and didn't cost exorbitant amounts of money. Or turn your socks pink if you didn't separate the wash. The Doctor's own laundry needs were usually pretty sparse, as he preferred to stick with variations on a single outfit. His life was complicated enough; he didn't care to worry about what to wear on any given day.

There was still a basket of Rose's laundry perched on top of the washer, full of hoodies and t-shirts in various shades of purples, pinks, and reds. The manner of their separation meant she'd only had with her what she wore when they went to Canary Wharf. The rest of her possessions were still on the TARDIS, in her room and scattered throughout various other places on the ship. She never had gotten the hang of picking up after herself. The Doctor frequently came across things unexpectedly on his trips through the commonly used rooms of his ship. When he did, it felt as though knives were being driven into his hearts, stealing away his breath. But he couldn't quite bring himself to remove all of it, or to ask the TARDIS to hide away her room. Finding her things hurt, but sometimes he could pretend, even if it was only for a few heartsbeats, that she'd only just popped out to visit her mum, or to go shopping with Mickey. That she might be coming back. Maybe it was foolish, and unhealthy...but it was some kind of comfort. That, and the knowledge that she was still alive and almost certainly living magnificently. Best he could do would be to do the same, and hope the pain would become tolerable someday.

And standing here mooning over a basket of wash was simply ridiculous. Rose would laugh at him. Dragging his eyes away from it, the Doctor began emptying the pockets of suit and coat onto the top of the dryer. They were his pockets, and he was responsible for everything in them, but even he was still occasionally astonished at what ended up in there...

Two yo-yos, one an ordinary toy, one a useful and highly sophisticated tool whose function he couldn't quite recall at the moment. A conker, and a small toy car. (He remembered picking up the conker in a village green, circa late-nineteenth-century-England, but where in the world had he picked up a toy car...?) The sonic screwdriver, of course, and his spectacles, and the thin leather wallet that held the psychic paper. The strange radio tag from the dead Reaver, its signal fading even now. (He suddenly remembered his sunglasses were on top of his head, and hastily snatched them off before he forgot about them again. It was a miracle they hadn't been lost in the fight.) A remote control, useful on robot scavengers and on small explosives disguised as Christmas ornaments. Several of said ornaments; left over from the encounter with the Empress of the Racnoss, that he still kept around in case they came in useful someday. A bag of sweets–saltwater taffy, if he remembered right, bought who-knew-when on his last trip to Cardiff. Quite good taffy actually, but he was finding his taste for Earth-made sweets wasn't as insistent as it used to be. He couldn't even look a jelly baby in the face anymore. He wasn't sure if that was a sign he was getting old, or simply growing up. He really hoped it was neither.

Various other tools, some broken, some not, none as useful as his screwdriver. A banana, starting to go brown. A pair of 3-D glasses that were not really 3-D glasses, and had a load of painful memories attached, since he'd used them last at the battle of Canary Wharf. If he put them on, he could still see the Void-stuff clinging to him–the same stuff that had cost him Rose. A small book of photos Rose had given him that last Christmas at the Powell Estate, full of shots of him, Rose, and Jack Harkness, with a several of Mickey and Jackie thrown in and various other people, human and otherwise, they'd encountered. The first half of the album had his old face. He smiled a little at it, with the daft ears and the icy blue eyes. He hadn't worn that body very long, it felt like–but it had been a good one. The album's contents would eventually join his other memorabilia in the library, but for now he still preferred having it on hand.

A handful of mixed currency from various planets, and the inevitable piece of candy covered in pocket fluff rounded out the collection. The Doctor blinked at the pile in faint bemusement. It really was amazing...and the best part was, everyone always thought he had nothing in his pockets. Bigger on the inside, best tailoring idea in the world. One of these days, he planned to test and see just how much he really could fit in there...

Amused by the possibilities, the Doctor quickly stripped out of his clothes and stuffed them into the washer. Then he grabbed the battered blue robe he'd swiped off Jackie's boyfriend last Christmas (there was still a satsuma in the pocket), started the wash, and left for the shower.

As a rule, Mal wasn't particularly opposed to parties, as such–free food and booze was something he'd developed a fondness for early on in life–but there was a job to be done and time wasn't turnin' any slower. Of course, he met with the usual amount of grumbling when he started rounding crew up–mostly from Kaylee, who loved parties of any kind, and from Jayne, who was using his "heroic wounds" in an attempt to get some trim–but in the end he managed to get everyone back on board and extract a fair amount of coin from Zeke before abandoning Ricky to bear the brunt of Three Hills' gratitude. (Ricky did not appear all that upset about it.)

It was several hours after they broke atmo, and most everyone had gone to bed. Jayne was keeping watch up on the bridge. His wounds were paining him some, but he'd refused painkillers, much to Simon's surprise. Mal figured it was Jayne's way of settling out his embarrassment over having his life saved by some greenhorn kid. He never would understand the workings of Jayne Cobb's mind. In truth, he really didn't want to.

A flash of something bright caught his eye as he stepped into the galley, and he looked up to see Inara standing in the far doorway. Mal hadn't had much chance to talk to her after they got back on Serenity, what with getting Jayne patched up and dealing with Zeke and the locals, and Inara had been pretty scarce since they broke atmo. He wasn't sure if she was upset with him, or just tired.

Now, with her standing there in the doorway–looking not at all tired and beautiful enough to make stars cry–Mal found himself at a loss for something to say. Which was not an unusual state of being for him, where Inara was concerned. Most times, it seemed, he opened his mouth around her, and it ended up being nothin' but a bie woo lohng that only made the already vast gulf between them bigger. He never could quite tell what she was thinking, and it always spun him about.

The silence, though, had become damned awkward, so Mal risked filling it with words. "Well. That was a bit of excitement."

Her face was solemn, as it seemed to be whenever she had something to say to him and wasn't sure how to say it. (He might have been pleased, had it been anyone other than Inara, to know that he, Malcolm Reynolds, could fuss a Companion so much she was at a loss for words. Since it was her, it mostly just made him nervous.) "The Reavers, or the party?" she asked.

"Oh, the party." He shot her a smirk. "Reavers seem to be shapin' up to be our stock in trade." He gave some thought to telling her about what they'd found, that someone out there was maybe trying to control Reavers–but then decided not to. The babbling of the Doctor was hardly proof–and with all the trouble behind them, Mal didn't much care to consider the implications if it was true. Wasn't his business, not when there was a job to be done...

"Mal..." Inara took a step forward, her hands twisting in the folds of her robe. Mal had an uneasiness settle on him. Inara this nervous about something couldn't be a good sign. Last time she'd been so fussed, it was when she told him she was leaving Serenity.

His imagination immediately shoved into overdrive. She was leaving again. The Guild had reinstated her and she was going back to the school. She was eloping with Zeke Harkness–no, hang on. Mal got a grip on himself. That was plain silly. "You want some tea?" he asked, moving toward the kitchen and giving her a chance to compose her thoughts. And for him to settle his.

And suddenly she was standing right there, fingers reaching out to brush his face again, just as she had at Zeke's station. He froze in the act of reaching for a kettle. This time her fingers lingered a little longer, tracing the lines the war had carved around his eyes and mouth. "I was worried," she whispered. "I'm glad you weren't hurt."

Then, before he could react, before he could do anything (he knew there was an appropriate action here, he just couldn't think of it at the moment), she was gone. She could move very, very fast when she felt like it. He was too stunned to think much that made any kind of sense, let alone go after her. He could still feel her touch, ghostlike, on his face.

Calling their relationship difficult was about like calling a Reaver aggressive. Didn't come close to describing it. He never had thought Inara felt much for him beyond annoyance, until the whole thing at the Heart of Gold. He knew he'd hurt her bad, bedding Nandi as he had–and he figured it was why she'd left. Mal never had viewed sex with a casual eye; between God and his ma, he'd always had it driven into his head that physical love was something real special, and not to be treated like an amusement ride. Even now, with his back turned on God and his ma long dead, he couldn't move past the idea that you didn't go to bed with someone unless you had a real, honest-as-the-black feeling between the pair of you. He'd liked Nandi, a whole lot–and if was more than honest with himself, he'd been feeling in powerful need of comfort that night, and she was offering...Inara accused him of being puritanical about sex, and maybe he was–but it didn't change the fact that he couldn't view a Companion's "job" with anything but distaste. Treating sex as a business transaction made it all meaningless. And where Inara was concerned...He hated the idea that there were men (and women) out there who saw her as nothing but merchandise, who couldn't or wouldn't look past the Companion and the sex to see the real Inara. The woman who was kind to a young mechanic from a dirt-poor background, who was about as far from Inara socially as was possible to get. The woman who always had a warm smile for those who needed it. Who was willing to argue with him until they were blue in the face, and still forgive him and offer aid when he needed a gentler hand than his or Zoe's with the crew. Who had willingly held hands and bandaged wounds and offered comfort when any of them were sick or bleeding, who had put on grubby clothes and helped paint and clean and repair Serenity after Miranda. Who had stood and faced the worst horrors in the 'verse while he left her behind, for no other reason than because it was right. The woman he wanted more than anything else in the 'verse, and who he was fair certain he could never have.

Mal stared at the kettle in his hand, wondering how it had gotten there. He put it away, mind still dwelling on Inara. Things between them were shifting now. She was suspended from the Guild, and so far as he could tell had not yet made attempts at reinstatement. He didn't know if it was because she was still coming to terms with what the Alliance she'd always supported had done–or because of him. He didn't dare hope it was the latter–and yet he couldn't ignore the whole shifting-thing. It was scary as hell. He knew very well that a broken-up, mule-stubborn browncoat like himself had nothing to offer her. He wouldn't ask her to give up being a Companion; he'd no right to. He didn't have the courage to admit to her how he felt.

His head hurting and his stomach in knots from frustration and bewilderment, Mal wandered down the stairs toward the infirmary, wishing Shepherd Book were still alive. Man might never have married, but he'd been damn good at insight into the working's of people's minds. Even women's minds, which had always been an impenetrable mystery to Mal himself. The Shepherd would have told him all manner of things Mal didn't want to hear–but it would have been all kinds of sensible, and in the end Mal probably would have done it. Even if it meant actually being truthful with Inara. But Book was gone, and Mal would have to work all this out himself. It was very depressing.

The couches near the infirmary were usually a good place to sit and think (or at least, they had been before Mal started catching Simon and Kaylee there on a regular basis) and Mal was in need of some pondering.

Simon and Kaylee were, much to Mal's relief, entertaining themselves elsewhere tonight–but the couch was not unoccupied. The Doctor was there instead, slouched on the worn cushions, bare feet propped on the table. His suit jacket was draped over the back of the couch beside him, and the collar of his dark blue shirt was unbuttoned two or three down, showing a brown tee shirt beneath. Beside him sat a pair of bright yellow canvas shoes similar in style, if not in color, to the ones he'd had on earlier. His specs were perched on his nose, and he was reading a book.

Mal's thoughts pushed themselves off the knotty issue of Inara. He'd had time, earlier, to think over some of what the Doctor had said, and he'd come to some conclusions he felt he ought to discuss with his odd passenger. With this in mind, he moved to stand across from the Doctor, thumbs hooked in his belt.

The Doctor appeared thoroughly engrossed in his book, but Mal had caught the flicker of eye as he'd entered the room; the Doctor knew perfectly well he was there. Mal waited.

Finally the Doctor surrendered, and looked up from his book. "Captain Reynolds. You're looming so very well, I can't help but feel you have something to say to me."

"Could say that," agreed Mal, and sat down at the other end of the couch. The Doctor politely turned to face him, closing his book over one finger. Mal glanced at the cover, noticing that it was bound in leather. Expensive book. "The Time Machine," he read.

The Doctor smiled slightly. "Yes. Old favorite of mine." He drew the fingers of his free hand over the book's cover in a caress. "H.G. Wells. Brilliant imagination. Always wanted to meet him."

"You're a reader," said Mal bluntly.

The Doctor blinked at him, a puzzled look creasing his face. "Well...yes? Favorite hobby of mine, I love books..." He stared at Mal as though he'd just grown an extra head.

"No, I mean...you're psychic." Mal knew he was going out on a limb here, but nothing else made sense. It had to be this.

The bewilderment vanished, and the Doctor's eyebrows shot upwards. "Am I? Why do you say that?"

"Stuff you said, back in the woods. About 'it'–and I'm guessin' you meant the Reaver–getting past your 'shields.' About what was in its mind. You're a psychic."

The Doctor's eyes narrowed, and Mal knew he'd hit a nerve. "Very clever," he said in a soft, not-entirely-happy voice. "Brilliant, in fact."

"Not really. Just basic arithmetic."

"Mmm. But most people aren't very good at adding together a few odd remarks and coming up with a sum of 'psychic.'" Those dark eyes had that eerie-ass look in them again. Mal wished he could figure out just why it was so creepifying. Made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

"Well–are you? Psychic, I mean?"

The other man sighed, and pulled of his specs. He set the book aside. "Yes," he admitted finally. "...for a given value of 'psychic.'"

"And that means what, exactly?" Mal fought to keep his voice from sounding belligerent. He'd told the man earlier that he'd earned a bit of trust; he wasn't about to go back on that word by pushing too hard.

"I guess you could call me telepathic," said the Doctor. "Among other things."

Mal wondered what "other things" might be, but decided now wasn't the time to ask. "Okay. That explains a few other things."

"Really? Like what?"

"Just..." Mal sighed. "Look, Doctor, I've only ever known one other reader and while I'm fond of her as can be, River Tam ain't exactly sane."

The Doctor's eyes widened. "She's psychic?" He looked a bit startled.

"Yeah–you couldn't tell?"

"No, I just thought she...oh. Oh, dear." The Doctor's eyes were distant, caught in some idea that clearly fussed him some. He shook himself slightly, apparently forcing himself to focus back on Mal. "So–you think I'm crazy."

"Most folk are crazy," said Mal dryly. "But yeah, you bein' a reader explains why you're odder than most."

"Well...it's an explanation." The Doctor half-smiled.

"I rest my case," replied Mal. Satisfied, he rose, then frowned. "You ain't pickin' thoughts out of my head, are you? Bad enough River does it..." he trailed off as the Doctor's gaze sharpened. That's interesting, thought Mal. The man was fair burning with curiosity–over what? A comment about River?

"No," said the Doctor. "No, I'm not reading your thoughts. Bit rude, doing something like that without permission. I usually don't enter other people's heads, as a rule. My own thoughts are company enough, thank you–and it's so hard to keep a good opinion of someone when you've just seen what they're really thinking."

"So...you can control it?"

"Of course I can." The Doctor was squinting all narrow-eyed at him again. "And River can't?"

Mal realized that Simon would probably be very not happy if he knew his sister was being discussed with a virtual stranger. While he didn't much care about the young doctor's opinion of him, he did worry that River might not like it. After all, it was her broken head. "You'll have to talk to her about it," he said. "Or her brother."

"Of course," said the Doctor, replacing his spectacles on his face and picking up his book again. "I hope the fact that I'm a 'reader' isn't going to complicate your life overmuch, Captain."

"Not unless you've recently escaped from an Alliance lab and they want you back. Though I can't say I haven't had experience with that, so I figure we could handle it even if that were the case."

"I dislike being experimented upon, so I try and stay out of other people's laboratories." The Doctor opened up The Time Machine, apparently finding his place again without any trouble at all.

Mal realized he was being dismissed, and didn't care for it. On the other hand, he'd started it by getting up, so he couldn't really complain. He salved his dignity some by walking away without saying anything. He was pretty certain the Doctor didn't even notice.

He had a lot to think on now, as he walked back through the quiet ship toward his quarters. The Doctor had confirmed Mal's suggestion he might be a reader willingly enough, but had managed to be evasive all the same. 'A given value of psychic' was an odd way of saying things. But then...as he'd said, Mal's only experience with a reader was River Tam–and she was only occasionally really lucid. She was improving, now that Miranda no longer burned up her brain, but most days a conversation with her felt like falling down the rabbit hole. (Alice in Wonderland was one book Mal hadn't fought his mother about reading as a kid.) It made sense that the Doctor, who was probably twice her age, was lucid most of the time and only occasionally slipped into crazy-talk. Like not knowing the year, or that really odd remark about 'lost colonists.' And the lack of name. It also seemed sensible that, given more years and experience, the Doctor, unlike River, had managed to find a way to block out the input of the world around him–provided, of course, that he'd been made psychic the same way she had. For all Mal knew, maybe the man was a natural-born reader. Maybe it was someone like him that made the Alliance decide to try their hand at manufacturing their own psychics.

But no...that didn't seem as likely. Man hadn't exactly denied he'd escaped from a lab, just said he didn't like being experimented on. Mal was more willing to buy the idea that the Doctor was an earlier example of the same experiment the Alliance had done on River and the mysterious 'others' he'd heard about from Simon. That, like River, he'd escaped and stayed out of Alliance hands. Mal could find a world of sympathy for him, were that the case.

Of course, if that were the case, it also meant that the Doctor was a living weapon, just like River Tam. And that was an unsettling thought, the idea of having two assassins of questionable stability on board his ship. It meant, to Mal's mind, just what River had said.

A storm was coming.