A/N: There was definitely something important to say. Really. I've just been up for forty-two hours and I have no idea what it was.
Well.
Hello, readers! Have a good time :]
Chapter Three
Gorram Gunshot Wounds; "Have we got an understandin'?"
9
The Doctor watched the two people in front of him, anxiously tugging on his bow tie. Amy was perched on the railing of the console and Rory was sitting on the floor against the far wall. They were quite insistent that everything was fine and amicable, with no fighting or arguing or anything of the sort. Which, to be fair, there wasn't, because they wouldn't speak or look at each other.
"So!" the Doctor said brightly, clapping his hands together. Amy started, nearly falling off the railing, and Rory looked up miserably. "Where shall we go today? The Emeralade Forests of Casia? The Mighty Sea of Todas? Maybe the unexplored Pureen Fields of Drilian!"
"Shut up," Amy said dully, which was her default answer these days.
The Doctor kept his good cheer façade up as he practically skipped over to the console. "Fine, I'll just pick then. Forests of Casia, here we come!"
"I don't know why you bother asking," Rory said as the TARDIS whirled into life. "You know we haven't heard of any of those places."
"And now you have," the Doctor replied cheerfully. "We'll make a three-way stop of it, show them all off, and then you'll know."
"Oh joy," Amy said sarcastically. "Pit stops at planets we'll never remember to see places nobody in their right mind has heard of. Might as well cram three into a day, it doesn't make it any less confusing."
"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear you say that," the Doctor replied. "You'll love the—the, hmm."
"Hmm?" Rory echoed. "What's 'hmm'? Doesn't sound good."
"What would you know about what sounds good and what doesn't?" Amy shot back.
"Well, no, it's not exactly not good," the Doctor said. "It's just, um, a bit—bad."
"A bit?" Amy asked. "What do you mean, a bit? We're in a bloody space ship, I wouldn't think things can be a bit bad. Either they're fine, which they clearly aren't—" She glared at Rory, "—or the universe is collapsing and we're stuck in the middle of it."
"Yeah," the Doctor said slowly. "Yes, you might want to hold on. Now. Tightly. Right now."
The TARDIS flipped over, slamming around, the sounds of crashing and breaking ringing throughout. The lights went out and Amy let out a low moan; she had never fully recovered from the Angels, and don't blink had no meaning in a pitch black room. Then other sounds, people sounds—literally, the sounds of people falling and slamming and crashing, but there should only have been three of them, and the Doctor was firmly anchored on the console, Amy had the railing, and Rory couldn't make that much noise by himself.
"Oi! What the—oof."
"—about Bad Wolf?"
"—is new, where's my—"
"—again, really? A bloody girder, again?"
"—awfully dark for regen—hey! Stop kicking!"
"I wouldn't be kicking if—wait, I know—"
"Who said Bad Wolf?"
"Everybody shut up!" the Doctor yelled. He had recognized each voice, and quite frankly he was terrified. "All right. The TARDIS has stopped moving, so if anyone is still being kicked, it's intentional." No one replied. Good. "Right. We've obviously just experienced a Space-Time Event, probably in the Vortex. The Vortex is very—black. It's not in here, you don't have to worry, the lighting's just been shorted out. I'll fix that in a minute. First, I need you to promise that you won't. Freak. Out."
A long pause.
"Sweetie, is that you?"
The Doctor ran a hand through his hair. "Yes. And, from what I heard, two other me's. So. Don't. Freak. Out."
He was impressed by the silence that followed. He had expected yelling and clamoring, other recognized voices, but either there had been too much clamoring for recognizing, or he wasn't giving himself and his companions enough credit. He took out his Sonic, waved it around the console, and suddenly the room was so bright it hurt.
Time Vortex darkness would do that.
"Before anyone says anything," the Doctor said, blinking in the light. "I know all of you, but you only know some of me. So, in order to avoid disrupting the Time Vortex any further, you can't talk to anyone you don't recognize. And, uh—Nine, don't ask Rose anything about after you—well, clearly you haven't regenerated, so I'm not sure, but—"
"What he's trying to say," River Song interrupted, "is to be very careful about spoilers."
"Yes, that."
More quiet as eyes adjusted to the light. The Doctor—he'd have to think of another name now that there were three of him—was having trouble understanding how everyone was so quiet when he was about ready to explode with questions. Or maybe he just talked too much these days.
Though he wasn't talking either. Maybe it was the shock.
His ninth and tenth regenerations—they could go by that, their regenerations—Rose, Donna, Amy, Rory, and River all in one place. It was shocking.
"Okay," Eleven said. "Okay, just—calm down."
"Nobody's said anything," Amy replied, and that made sense, she only knew River, everyone else was a stranger. "That's pretty calm, don't you think?"
"You and Rory don't talk and you're not calm," Eleven shot back. "See what happens when you're not calm? I get irritable, and if we're going to get through this, whatever this is, I can't be irritable, I've got to think, and—No! River! Don't open the door!"
River looked over her shoulder with her patented smirk. "Sorry, Sweetie. Someone's got to do it."
"Don't you think we ought to—I don't know—do? Something? First?" Eleven stammered. "We've just experienced a major Space-Time Event, we should—"
"I'm with River," Amy interrupted, jumping up, and following her to the door. "We've got to do something. Since when are you one for standing still? You're not now, you're bouncing on the balls of your feet. So shut up and let's go."
River and Amy left. Rose and Ten exchanged a very tight hug before breaking apart. She looked strained—Ten was no longer her Doctor, the alternate Doctor was. That couldn't have been easy for either of them. She slipped out the door, oozing awkwardness. Donna shot Eleven a distrustful look, a furious one at Ten—she did remember having her mind erased, then, and wasn't pleased, but who would be?—and walked out the door. Rory looked at the three versions of the Doctor, shook his head, and left.
"We might as well go on," Ten said uncomfortably.
"I'd be interested in an explanation," Nine replied. "You two are me? Have I got that straight?"
"Yeah, that's about all I know," Eleven said. "I propose—"
"Hang on," Ten interrupted. "If you're next, after me, then you were in the TARDIS when this happened. What, exactly, did happen?"
"Haven't the slightest clue," Eleven replied. "What I was saying—"
"How do I know you're me?" Nine asked, crossing his arms. "It could be a trick. You two, the rest of them, all this could be a trap, or just the musings of someone bored and very, very clever."
Eleven spoke their name.
Ten said their mother's name.
Nine added their father's.
"Right," Eleven said. "Now that we've established we are who we say we are—that is, the same person—we have to talk about names. That's what I was trying to say before you interrupted. I'm quite annoying, apparently. I propose regenerations. Nine, Ten, and Eleven. Fair enough?"
"Why should we take orders from you?" Ten asked. "While you're wearing that?"
Eleven adjusted his hat. "It's a fez. I—you, um—we. We wear a fez now. Fezzes are cool."
"As are bow ties?" Nine asked, nodding at his tie.
"Absolutely," Eleven said. "Are we ready?" The three Doctors looked at each other in silence. "Right. Off we go, then! Geronimo and all."
"Geronimo," Nine muttered under his breath. "Fantastic."
Ten quirked a smile at him. "Ought to be allons-y."
Eleven turned around, halfway out the door. "Ah, ah, ah. Spoilers."
"So no talking at all," Ten said, raising his eyebrows.
"Obviously not," Nine replied. "We could throw the entire universe out of whack. A few others too, if we tried hard enough."
"And given this Space-Time Event, we're already pushing our luck," Eleven finished. "Come on, I want to have a look around, and if I know you at all—which I do, I was you—you're just as eager." For the first time he realized that Amy was right, he was in fact bouncing. "Fantastic, allons-y, and geronimo all at once! Very cool!" He left, not looking to see whether or not his past selves were following. He knew himself, he knew they were. He felt badly for Nine, who hardly knew anything, but the important part was that he—Eleven—didn't need to keep track of himself because he knew what he would do.
He might want to tell someone in charge about buttons, in case Ten found one. He always did.
They were in a cargo bay of a space ship. An overcrowded cargo bay, filled with its own crew as well as himselves and his companions. Chaos came to mind.
A man walked up a little ways onto a metal staircase.
"If everyone could just shut their gorram mouth-holes for a mite second, I think all us here would be a great deal happier."
River appeared at Eleven's side.
"Quite something, don't you think?"
"Yes, well, that's sort of the point, isn't it?" Eleven replied. "Of Space-Time Events? They're always quite…something…" He trailed off as he realized he was the last one talking.
He had to interrupt later, though, when Captain Mal needed to know about the crack.
And again, asking about fish fingers and custard.
Then they were all led away, and Eleven was left with the lingering impression that he enjoyed someone else being in command. Just for a bit, until the TARDIS—which was now smoking—was been repaired. A weight off his shoulders. Sort of scary, but interesting.
And, after all, it was Captain Mal's ship. Eleven didn't believe in commandeering ships. It wasn't sporting.
10
Eleven spent the first day dealing with the fallout from the Space-Time Event. He introduced his companions to each other, along with instructions not to talk about any of himselves, which seemed harmless. Nine was instructed to avoid everyone, though it was more of a careful explaining without giving anything away. One of the very, very few perks of having his old selves around—they understood each other. He looked lonelier than usual but hid it well behind his trademark grin. Eleven had quickly left Nine's bunk, feeling awful about it. Ten already knew what to do from his encounter with River Song. Then Eleven had to explain the situation to the crew of Serenity, who were remarkably unfazed.
Then he had slept. A lot. Being part of a Space-Time Event was exhausting, especially when explaining it was his job. He'd skipped breakfast and lunch, treated himself to what counted as a shower on Serenity, sneaking the tub of water into his bunk while no one was looking. It wasn't quite as relaxing as he had pictured.
It was only after that it occurred to him that he didn't have a change of clothes, that all of his belongings were in the TARDIS. He had snagged a towel from the latrine, but hadn't thought to bring clothes. He dried his hair as best he could, though he suspected it was still wet and was now sticking up in strange ways he could have avoided, wrapped the towel around his waist, and started down to the cargo bay.
He was sidetracked by the kitchen. His stomach reminded him quite forcefully that he hadn't eaten in quite a while, and food became much more important than clothing.
Going through the cupboards was a depressing experience. There were energy bars. A different flavor of energy bars. And packets. Muttering under his breath about fish fingers, he grabbed a packet at random, not paying attention, dumped the powder into a bowl, and put it in what wasn't exactly a microwave. It seemed to know what to do, and a few minutes later the not-quite-a-microwave dinged. His search for a spoon ended another few minutes later, and he took a huge bite.
"Oh good Gallifrey!" he exclaimed, spitting out the concoction into the sink. "What is this?"
"Judging from the smell, I'd say you have yourself dehydrated ground beef cook with no water and no seasonin's. You might want to try addin' some spice, or puttin' it on something. A bun, or somethin' of the like."
Eleven spun around, bowl in one hand, spoon in the other. Mal was leaning in the doorway looking bemused.
"I'm not—" Eleven looked down at the bowl. "This is disgusting."
"If you'd checked the label, y' might not be in this here predicament," Mal replied. "But we don't waste foodstuffs here, so I'm afraid you'll just have to hoof it up and get it over with."
Eleven glanced at the food again. "Can I, ah—spice?"
"We happen to be just about plum out now," Mal said. "We're a mite low on coin, too. Go on, hurry up, the faster you choke it down the sooner it'll be over."
Eleven winced. "Buns?"
"Once it's been dehydrated there's not much that can be done to be fixin' it," Mal replied. "If y'all really want one I'll show you the way, but it'll just make it even dryer."
Eleven took a small bite, hoping it wasn't as bad as he remembered. "It's rubbish," he declared.
Mal's face hardened. "I won't have you insultin' my ship, or what provisions we manage to scrape by on. If you're so much fancier than the rest of us, go on and find someone else who won't turn down a meal just cause some don't bother to suss out the proper way of doin' things. I don't take kindly to tetchiness round here."
There was something about his tone, about the way he looked disappointed in him, that made Eleven shrink. "Right. I'll just finish this up, then."
Mal nodded. "Aye, that'd be right smart."
Eleven pushed himself up onto the counter, swinging his legs as he forced down the dry, tasteless and charred, crumbly meat-stuff. He couldn't help grimacing, occasionally choking as his mouth dried out but making himself finish. He was used to unlimited food, but of course it made sense that a small, broke ship would need to ration its food out.
But Amy was the only one who could get away with yelling at him.
…on the other hand, there was—he was just so used to being in charge, in this regeneration and his others, and even something as simple as being told not to throw out perfectly good food—okay, not good, but nutritionally sound—just because he didn't like it.
Except beans. Beans were evil.
Mal poured a differently colored packet into a pan—with water—and slowly stirred it. A delicious small wafted over, and Eleven whimpered quietly. Mal glanced at him, once again bemused.
"For bein' the oldest of the Doctor's, you're quite the young one."
"I'm not young, I'm nine hundred and seven," he huffed.
Mal smiled slightly. "Young ain't got a thing to do with age. Not surprised you speak Chinese if you're really as old as you say."
The TARDIS was still translating. A good sign.
"Yup, well, there's a lot to do in nine hundred years," Eleven said. Despite explaining who the people from his timeline were, he was reluctant to share the inner workings of the TARDIS. He tilted the bowl and poured the rest of the ground beef into his mouth. He couldn't help a noise of disgust, and he practically threw the dishes into the sink. "Don't you dare lecture me about doing my dishes, I'm going to do them, I know my manners, I just—god, I just need to be away from the smell for a minute."
Mal shook his head. "Tetchy young one. You've got to get yourself calmed down. And maybe some proper clothes. Not that you ain't enjoyable like that, but—" He abruptly cut himself off. "You most likely don't want to live in a towel for the rest of your stay."
Eleven flushed and adjusted his towel. "I think—yes, I think I'll go get clothing now. After I do the dishes. Dishes, then clothes. Yes." He slipped off the counter, minding his towel, quickly washed out his bowl and spoon, and set them in the dish drainer. "So. Yes. Clothes."
"Probably a shiny thought," Mal agreed. He was sitting at the table, leaning back as he ate his good-smelling food. "You're all flushed, makes it seem like somethin' might be goin' on beneath that towel of yours."
Both men stared at each other. Mal's chair came down with a thump, clearly surprised by himself. Eleven was acutely aware that it wasn't just his face that was flushed but his entire body burning red.
"Clothes," Eleven stated.
"Yeah, real shiny," Mal said quickly.
Eleven tightened his towel. He hated flirting. His past regenerations hadn't minded, especially when Jack Harkness was around, but Eleven hadn't met Jack, and he was entirely inexperienced. In this body. In this regeneration.
He tried to draw on his past lives while channeling Jack, who he hadn't met.
"So, er, yes, I, um, clothes," Eleven stammered. "Fez and a bow tie, got to have those."
That was entirely unrelated to flirting.
…wait. Why was he trying to flirt again?
"Is that what that's called?" Mal asked. "That red hat of yours? Fez?"
"Yes, fez, I wear a fez, fezzes are cool now," Eleven jabbered. "I should go. Get it. My fez. It's, um. In my bunk actually." He could feel his blush darkening. "But my other clothes, clothes first, in the TARDIS. So I'll just be. Heading down. Now. For clothes. Several clothes, actually, so I don't do this every day because, well, it's just a towel, and…Clothes."
"You keep sayin' that," Mal said, sounding half curious, half awkward, and partly something else Eleven didn't know. "But you're still standin' in that there towel."
"Yes," Eleven said. "Very good point. Goodbye."
He slipped out the door, a lot more embarrassed than he should be. He wore towels. Towels were cool.
11
The next few days were some of the most awkward of Eleven's life. Eleven wasn't sure if he was avoiding Mal or purposefully spending time with him, creating a very on-off situation. Breakfast together on the stairs up to the control room because the kitchen was too crowded, followed not remotely acknowledging each other in the hallways. A brief comment about his fez, followed by making fun of his bow tie, which involved pulling on it and touching it and a lot of closeness. Mal running a job by Eleven, asking for his opinion, followed by Eleven replying that he never had a plan, he just went. Then they didn't see each other for a day.
Eleven used that day to talk to Inara. It was a little awkward because she wouldn't allow him in her quarters in a way that made it more than obvious she was entertaining, and instead took him to the common area downstairs. Of course then it was more awkward because he was asking someone he barely knew how to flirt, and since he refused to tell her who it was she kept insisting she couldn't help. He did get a few pointers, though—use his awkwardness to his advantage by being bumbling and adorable, if he was shorter and smaller then come off as cute and cuddly and if he was taller and broader then go for manly (which he found hilarious but also irrelevant as Mal was significantly bigger than he was), and the obvious: listen well, try not to talk as much and use complete sentences while still being himself, use physical contact but only when not too obvious, give space and time to ruminate on him and miss him, at least as much as one could in Serenity.
Eleven felt he knew all of that.
He also compared Inara's advice against how Mal was acting. It was not entirely unrelated. In fact, it seemed very related. But while he was very good at reading people in terms of catastrophe, and reading catastrophe itself, he had no idea how to know if someone was flirting with him. River Song flirted, but as he was fairly certain they were married at some point and possibly that she had killed him, he didn't think that counted. Jack had flirted with his past selves, but those weren't him. Amy hadn't flirted with him exactly, but there was the night before her wedding when she had tried to sleep with him, and then again the night her divorce was finalized, but the first had ended in immediately running off in the TARDIS and the second in a breakdown.
So no, he wasn't sure how to pick up on interest, and Inara refused further help unless he said who he wanted. Which was fair but unhelpful.
Eleven was nervous but resolved to spend time with Mal that night when he got back from his job. Instead Mal spent several hours in the infirmary having a bullet removed, and then sleeping off the pain medication in his bunk. Eleven had a moment of panic when he heard Mal had been shot, but he was quickly reassured that it was a common enough occurrence, and he shouldn't worry. Inara gave him a knowing look, which he completely ignored.
The next day, day seven of being on Serenity, Eleven was determined. He made two bowls of oatmeal and two cups of tea, somehow managing to juggle the bowls and cups down to Mal's bunk. He knocked with his foot, nearly unbalancing.
"Mmn, what gorram time—uhhhg, fine, what?"
Eleven pushed the door open, again with his foot, this time nearly falling down the ladder. "I have food," he said. "And tea."
"Did you add water, or is it just a heated up teabag and powdered oats?" Mal asked. He had slung an arm over his eyes, and moved slightly, peering over his arm.
"Yes, quite sure," Eleven replied. "But, ah, if you want privacy, you didn't sound like you wanted company, I can just drop it off."
Mall rubbed his eyes and pushed himself up onto his elbows before wincing and falling back down. Eleven made it down the ladder and closed the hatch without spilling anything, setting the food and tea on the bedside table, and pushed his hair out of his face without thinking about it. Mal gave him an odd look.
"I don't do guns," Eleven said. "Guns are bad. They're—messy, and undignified. Very loud, too."
Mal glared at him. "Remember what I keep sayin'? Stop insultin' me, my boat, my crew, and my life. If I didn't have a gun, I'd be sullied by a mite more bullets than I'm currently carryin', that bein' none due to our own doctor."
Eleven felt himself shrink again. Mal did that to him. He supposed that went along with Inara's advice, though he wasn't thrilled with seeming small and insignificant.
"Right," Eleven said. "I have oatmeal."
Mal gave him a complicated look. "So you've said, and so's I can smell. Would you be interested in handin' it to me, as I'm not in a particularly mobile position?"
"Yes, definitely." Eleven handed him the bowl, then propped the small pile of pillows up into a headrest so Mal could eat more comfortably, generating an even more complicated look.
"I reckon I can handle my own bed," he said. "Includin' my pillows."
Eleven blushed immediately. "Yes, but you winced, so I thought I could help you not wince, and that might be good."
Mal pushed himself further up, taking full advantage of the pillows. "I ain't used to acceptin' help."
"Just pillows," Eleven replied nervously.
"And oatmeal," Mal added, finally taking a bite, bringing the bowl up to his mouth rather than leaning over it. "That isn't completely useless, 'Verse knows how."
"I can cook," Eleven protested. "Toast, omelettes, spaghetti, soup, ah…"
"Oatmeal," Mal added. "Roughly speakin'. Not quite A grade, but I imagine that's more due to the source than your cookin' skills."
They sat in silence as Mal ate, Eleven first squatting, then kneeling, and finally sitting next to his bed.
"You're a mite restless this fine morning," Mal commented.
"I don't like guns, and I don't like bullets, and I don't like seeing you hurt," Eleven said bravely.
"I told you, I'm none worse for wear," Mal replied. "Lead free, hole fixed up, defibrillated when I quit wantin' to live, so I was told, and all the Propoxine I could want. Ain't no need to worry."
Eleven put a hand on Mal's arm without thinking, all his thoughts taken up by what he had said. "Your heart stopped?"
Mal huffed irritably. "Not since yesterday! I'm tryin' to eat here, stop talking."
"Right," Eleven said vaguely. He hated guns, and this was a perfect example of why. He noticed Mal didn't shake his hand off, and he decided keeping it there was a good idea. It fell in line with what Inara had suggested at any rate, and she could probably be trusted.
More silence, reigning until Mal finished the oatmeal. Looking extremely displeased, he said, "Mind puttin' this back on the table? I'm a bit on the drift when it comes to turnin' around."
"Absolutely," Eleven said, taking the bowl and setting it down next to his, which was full and untouched. It could wait; right now he was too busy enjoying Mal's company and paying very close attention to what he said, just in case his brain decided to run away with his mouth. "Tea?"
"Think lettin' my stomach settle might be wise," he replied, closing his eyes. His hand went to his right ribs and he winced as he gently explored the area. "One thing about guns, they tire you out awful quick if you happen to be on the receivin' end."
"Do you need anything?" Eleven asked, half worrying about where the overstepping line was but mostly not caring. He figured bullets beat overprotection and fussing. "Water, a compress?"
Mal opened his eyes again, assessing Eleven, who had to stop himself from squirming under his gaze. "You're a real oddball, y'know that? Can't quite figure you out."
Eleven wasn't sure if that was a compliment or not. "And you only know one of me," he said, opting for humor. "Imagine trying to figure out three at once. Or, Gallifrey forbid, eleven."
Mal groaned. "Don't you go jokin' about that, lest you bring more trouble down on us." He paused. "So where is this Gallifrey of yours? I'm pretty familiar with everything under the sky, but I don't recollect that particular name."
Eleven fidgeted again. "It's gone now. I don't know where it falls on your timeline, but it's been gone for a long time."
Mal's eyes hardened. "Sounds more familiar than I'd wish on either of us."
Eleven tugged at his jacket sleeve. "Right." He brightened, refusing to let a sick Mal slip into depression as well as pain. The fact that being in a good mood helped his own agenda was incidental, almost. "So, where'd you get shot?"
"I been shot everywhere one time or another," Mal replied, pride creeping in. Mission accomplished, even if it wasn't in a way Eleven liked. "This time they got my ribs, right where it makes movin' difficult. Mind it weren't due to skill, just the place where myself happened to be at the time." He pushed down again and winced. "There's a box on the table. Mind handin' it over?"
"I—yeah, I…You're taking your shirt off."
Mal was doing exactly that, revealing more and more of what Eleven was more and more desperate to have.
Mal shot him a smile. "I been more naked than this, and in much worse conditions. Just need to change my bandage is all; I aim to be done as quick as possible, get it out of the way while the meds are still around. I expect after the towel you didn't have a mind for modesty, but if it send you out atmo, you can always turn 'round. I got nothin' to be ashamed of."
"I, no, yeah, it's fine," Eleven stammered. He fumbled with the box, nearly dropping it into his oatmeal, and handed it to Mal, who was now entirely naked from the waist up with the exception of a gauze bandage taped to his side. "Need help?"
Mal quirked an eyebrow, still smiling. "First you get all moonbrained over the idea of me losin' a shirt, and now you're offerin' help?"
"Common courtesy," Eleven choked out. He kept his eyes on Mal's, for the most part. "Helping. I'm a Doctor, I help."
"Not as much with medicine, from what I hear," Mal replied, carefully unsticking the tape and, with a wince and a pained hiss, pulled off the gauze. A smallish red hole pierced through his side, though Eleven had to admit it didn't look too bad, at least as far as bullet wounds went. The skin around the edges was already starting to knit back together, nothing was swollen or inflamed, and scar tissue was already threatening to take over what skin and hole there was. Eleven let his eyes flick to the rest of his chest; he had his fair share of scars, some obviously from bullets and others more mysterious.
"Once you've taken in what there's to be taken, I wouldn't turn down that offer of help," Mal said, jerking Eleven out of his thoughts. He flushed darkly, but he also saw a light tinge of pink on Mal's cheeks. "Twistin' around, y'know, not so great on the ribs."
Eleven swallowed dryly. "Yeah. Help, I can help. I'm good at helping. That's what I do, I help. Run around the universe, helping those who need help, trying to peace or sometimes destruction, depending on the occasion, but I always help, at least I try to, and—"
"As flattering as it is that you can't seem to form a coherent sentence when I'm divested of my clothing, it's be real pretty to get this over with," Mal interrupted, still with the blush, still with the smile.
"Yes," Eleven said, not trusting himself with more words. "Okay. Got it."
12
Eleven opened the box. There were two small vials, a few squares of gauze, a roll of medical tape, and a bottle. He noted Simon had labeled each one; clearly he didn't trust Mal to remember on his own. It could have been due to the pain killers, but Eleven didn't think so. The labels each had a large number in addition to the instructions, and Eleven picked up the first vial.
One
To be applied, with Q-tip, inside the wound.
Use once an hour until there is no more red.
Eleven hadn't noticed, but there were indeed a small handful of Q-tips hiding under the gauze. He opened the vial, swabbed a Q-tip, and hovered.
"I think this might hurt," he said.
"Reckon it wouldn't work if it don't," Mal replied, though Eleven saw him grip his blankets. "Go on, hurry up."
Eleven carefully dipped the slicked cotton into the hole. Mal hissed, eyes flying closed, clenching his jaw.
"I'm sorry," Eleven said regretfully. "Truly. But the faster—"
"Yeah, I gorram got the ruttin' principle o' the matter," Mal snapped. "Stop stickin' things inside me unless you plan on doin' a lot more than gorram swabbing."
Eleven jerked, and Mal let out a pained groan as Eleven lost track of what he was supposed to be doing. Was that a—a proposition? Eleven still hadn't worked out how to know when even he was flirting, let alone Mal, and then that.
"Sorry," Eleven rushed. "So sorry, just got distracted there for a mo', back to work. Done with the—ah, penetration." Mal didn't reply as he tossed the Q-tip away and pulled out the second vial.
Two
Rub around the edges of the wound.
Keep an eye on the size of the wound, and reapply when it stops shrinking.
Continue until the wound is entirely closed.
"Sorry," Eleven repeated nervously, pouring a small amount of ointment onto two fingers. "More rubbing."
"Rubbin' ain't penetratin'," Mal replied, unclenching his muscles and opening his eyes. "Rub away."
That look, what was that look? It should have been pain and resentment, but while that was part of it, the majority was something else. Something dark and smoky. His eyes were dark blue, so dark, and he was looking at him like—
"Well?" Mal said, interrupting Eleven's thoughts. "Are we doin' this or not?"
Eleven flushed. "Yes. Sorry." He tentatively brushed where the skin had already started to knit back together, first circling the somewhat healthy skin before moving inwards to what would hurt. Mal tightened his jaw again but otherwise didn't show any pain. "Are you okay?"
"Plumb shiny," he grunted.
Hating himself, the last bit of self control Eleven had managed to hold onto slipped away, and certain parts of his own body started to seek attention.
"I'm sorry," he said yet again, voice cracking.
"Yeah, got that by now," Mal replied, voice a little calmer. "Cooling. It's good. Y'all can keep doin' that a bit longer, if it suits."
Eleven's hearts were slamming around and he repositioned himself, just in case Mal had wandering eyes. He dripped a few drops onto his skin, and Mal sighed. Eleven carefully rubbed it in, sitting on his left hand in case it wandered. He had a tendency to wander.
Not like this, though.
"A—any more?" Eleven asked, voice still unsteady.
"Probably shouldn't waste it," Mal said, briefly closing his eyes, no doubt at hatred for responsibility. "Could be needin' it for a mite longer. If not now, later." He gestured to his chest, which Eleven took as permission to once again sweep his eyes across his body. "There's those who look worse. Jayne's got a fair few holes in him, and a proclivity to attract more."
"You look…" Eleven trailed off as Mal watched him curiously. "Like a fighter."
Mal's interest faded. "Imagine I do."
"And other things," Eleven continued quickly. "Like, ah, uh. You." He reached into the box, frantically pulling out the third item. It was gauze, very thin.
Three
Breathable gauze, to avoid infection and protect the wound.
Change dressing as necessary. Which is more than never, don't try to slip it by me.
Continue use until the wound has scarred over.
"Like you need gauze," Eleven said. "Lie still."
Mal did, shifting slightly. "Done with the hard part, imagine."
Eleven shifted as well. "Yup, just gauze and tape. Coverings. To avoid infection. No more contact, penetrating, rubbing, or otherwise."
"That'd be a shame under different circumstances," Mal replied. "As it is, shiny news."
"Yes, ah, well." Eleven's hands were shaking as he carefully arranged the bandage before settling it on his skin. He let his fingers brush along Mal's skin, disappointed and confused when he didn't get a reaction. "Hurt?" he asked. "That? Did it hurt?"
"I can handle gauze," Mal said. "Ain't nothin' compared to that damned swab."
"The bullet itself?" Eleven asked, needing to occupy his brain somehow, because clearly letting his mind wander wasn't acceptable.
Four
Thicker gauze, again to fight infection.
Change with the other dressings.
"Adrenaline's pumpin' too hard to notice much," Mal said. His face, which had been open and expressive before, was closing off. "Slight inconvenience, nothin' more."
"And after?" Eleven asked, adding the second layer of gauze. "Between the fight and the pain medication?"
"Pretty and shiny," Mal said sarcastically. "Just about my favorite. Love it so much my heart stopped on account of the feelin'."
"I'm." Eleven stopped.
Five
Medical tape. Secure the gauze with a strip on each side.
Use sparingly but not stupidly so. Don't pick at it.
Discard after each use.
Eleven secured the bandages, once again letting his fingers linger, trying to make it more obvious. The question was whether or not Mal was upset about the initial touch or the lack of reciprocity about what he had said. It was just he had no idea how to respond.
"After?" Eleven blurted out.
Mal eyed him. "Doin' what after what?"
Eleven licked his lips nervously and put the tape away.
Six
Propoxine.
One to two tablets every four to six hours as needed.
Do not exceed eight tables in a day.
It's useless to say, but take it if you need it. Don't torture yourself.
"Do you want a Propoxine?" Eleven asked.
"Don't wanna go all moonbrained on m'self," Mal replied. "Never know when you need a sharply tuned brainpan."
Eleven gently traced his fingers over Mal's forehead, who cocked an eyebrow, silently asking for an explanation.
"The note specifically says not to torture yourself," Eleven said. "Take it if you need it."
"And you can gauge my level of pain by touchin' my forehead," Mal stated.
"No," Eleven replied bravely. "No, I—ah…" He swallowed. He wasn't used to this sort of thinking. "After, it's after now. Sometimes after happens. All the time, actually, unless the universe ended. Which it did, a while ago, but then I fixed it and there was still an after, so—"
"Stop," Mal interrupted. "Just—what about after?"
Eleven slammed the box down on the table—accidentally, he was just in a hurry—and pushed himself away from the bed. "Nothing, nothing whatsoever, I was thinking, I do that sometimes, I think, and I—I think I should go, or…"
Mal suddenly smirked, eyes fixed on Eleven but considerably lower than his face. "Old friend, you're looking lively."
"Yup, that's me, full of life," Eleven continued, not sure when he last breathed. His lungs were starting to get upset with him. "Full, full, full of life, and I'm just going to go—um, do something somewhere else, and let you rest, and I will see you later."
Eleven started to move away, and Mal reached out and took hold of one of his suspenders. Eleven froze.
"That ain't the sort of lively I was aimin' for, nor the sort you seem to be sportin'."
Eleven glanced down to where Mal was looking. He closed his eyes, uttering a quiet whimper of embarrassment.
"No, please—please don't," he said, voice growing quieter. "I'm not—I'm nine hundred and seven, and you're human, and I'm—you're, one of us, I mean—"
"Shut your gorram mouth," Mal ordered. He yanked on the suspender and Eleven lost his balance, sprawling onto the bed. Even as muddled as he was, he made sure to keep his weight off Mal's wound. "I know what you are and I know what I am, and there's things I care a lot more about than that."
Not quite sure how, Eleven found himself being kissed. Rough, insistent lips pushing against his, forcing him to go along with it, mostly stopping was impossible. He kept one hand on the bed, supporting his weight off Mal's side and braced the other on the wall, giving himself an opportunity to pull away but not taking it. The hand that Mal had on his suspender flattened, resting low on his chest, and the other went to the back of his neck, anchoring them together.
"Gorrammit," Mal gasped, separating them. "Ruttin' waste of a bullet, diggin' into my head…"
Eleven jumped off him, aware he was flailing and unable to stop. "You got shot in the head?"
Mal laughed breathlessly. "No, idiot. Do I look corpsified to you?" He reached beneath his pillows and pulled out a shiny red apple. He tossed it at Eleven, who managed to recover enough to catch it. "Brought you this. Don't need to be cooked or nothin'. Hard to get 'round these parts, but I figure it'd be better than bringin' down the whole kitchen."
Eleven looked at the apple, hopelessly torn.
Mal groaned. "Let me guess. You haven't got a likin' for apples."
"No," Eleven replied miserably.
"Give it here, then, and don't go mentionin' it around," Mal said, taking the apple and stashing it back beneath his pillows. "Call it a reward for gettin' shot." He gave Eleven a sly look. "You aimin' to come back, or are we finished?"
"No," Eleven replied immediately.
Mal frowned. "No what? No comin' back or no, we're done?"
"What—what would we, ah, be?" Eleven asked awkwardly, straightening his suspender.
"Don't matter what it's called," Mal replied carefully. "Long as we got an understandin'."
"An understanding?" Eleven echoed.
"I reckon you know the type I'm referrin' to," Mal said shrewdly.
"And—after?" Eleven asked again.
This time Mal understood him immediately. "Don't know," he said. "I reckon that'd be up to you. I ain't inclined to have an understandin' lest it's mite longer, but—" He struggled for words. "There've been worse understandin's." He looked back up at Eleven, eyes locking. "Have we got an understandin', then?"
Eleven adjusted his fez, which Mal had nearly knocked off. Then his bow tie, which didn't need adjusting. His suspenders, which he had just fixed. A failed attempt at rearranging his slacks in a less obvious way.
"Yeah, understanding," he proclaimed. "I can, we can have an understanding, an understanding sounds good. I like understandings. Understandings are cool."
The sly smile again. "Then I reckon you ought to be comin' back on over." Eleven took a nervous step forward. "Minus the fez, lest you fancy tryin' to find it after."
Eleven carefully set his fez down next to his uneaten oatmeal and the untouched tea.
They remained untouched for quite some time.