Title: Sticking Point (7/9)

~Day 7~

"He's hungover," Zoe stated flatly, cold gaze fixed on the man at the table, hunched over a cup of coffee. Mal followed Zoe's look from where they worked in the kitchen, putting themselves together plates of breakfast. He had to admit Wash was looking pretty seedy. More pasty than pale, red-eyed and bristle-chinned, the hair on both his head and upper lip needing a comb, given to wincing at the clatter of utensils and dishes.

Zoe's disparaging observation put Mal in the odd position of defending his pilot's personal habits to his X.O. "The drink was my idea, Zo'. Thought he could maybe use blowing off a little steam."

"Surprised y' didn't acquire him a little company to go with that drink. In the interest of steam-blowin'."

"Didn't need help from me in that area," Mal reported, with a hitch of one shoulder. "Just gave him room to maneuver an' he had two very willin' ladies buyin' him drinks by the end of the evenin'."

She arched a skeptical brow. "Heard you come in, was only twenty-two hundred. He must be bunny-quick to go through two that early."

A tad scandalized she'd be bending her thoughts toward Wash's sexual prowess, let alone discussing it, Mal huffed an impatient breath. "Don't have any notion as to the nature or quality of his bedroom habits, Zoe, nor do I care to speculate," he snapped. "How-some-ever, fact is he declined their invitation and came back ship-side with me."

Both her brows went up at that. "Hm," she said, then took her plate and mug to the table, setting both down rather more loudly than necessary. Wash flinched at the noise, then, as the smell of Zoe's scrambled protein, laced with fish sauce, drifted his way, he cast a horrified look at her food, clamping a hand over his mouth. Then, with an anguished glance at Zoe, he bolted out of his chair and toward the bridge, clutching his coffee cup.

She watched him go, placidly spooning protein into her mouth. And Mal had to admit her actions irked him some. While he didn't expect her to fall in love with the guy, it would be nice if she'd warm up to him, at least a tad. Wash was feng le, no question. Might actually be officially so, considering his current behaviors. But gorram it, Tanaka had been right, he was a damn fine pilot. Mal'd told Zoe so, after he'd set the crippled shuttle down on Ita. And after the landing he'd made just this last week, he didn't get why she wouldn't cut him some slack, just on account of the excellent piloting. During the war, she'd always given their more talented soldiers a little more leeway, in the sanity area. Wasn't sure what was driving her to actively torment the man.

One benefit of Wash's pounding head and queasy stomach – as far as Mal was concerned – was that he took to the bridge like a sick animal taking to its den. So, except for checking in on the guy every now and then, politely ignoring his decrepitude, and keeping his steps light and spoken words low-key yet cheerful, Mal didn't have to worry about him much, as Bester (or even Zoe) had no reason to step on the downed Serenity's bridge. And he had to give the man points, in as the day wore on and his condition improved, Wash assigned himself the task of fine-tuning their communication array.

That afternoon a shaggy kid rode up bareback on an equally shaggy pony, to hand deliver an elegantly scribed note from Mrs. MacGregor, owner of the sundries store, letting him know she'd filled the rest of his order. Would he care to have it delivered this afternoon? He wondered why she hadn't simply waved, but then noted the wide-eyed, wordless curiosity with which the boy studied Serenity, and figured maybe grandma had given him this chore as a treat. Mal dug a pencil stub out of a pocket and replied on the back of the note: "Will be by later this afternoon to pick up the goods myself. Thank you kindly, Malcolm Reynolds."

He handed the note back to the silent boy, who took it, put it in the front pocket of his shabby shirt, then wheeled the pony around on her bitless halter, prodding heels urging her into a canter. Mal watched him go, recalling the countless hours of his youth spent on a horse's back. When he could no longer see the pair, he turned to make his way to the Serenity's bridge.

There he discovered the comm system closed up and fastened down, its battered metal panels meticulously wiped free of fingerprints. And Wash standing idle, staring out the front screen, absently twisting the polishing cloth through restless fingers. Mal came up beside him, thinking maybe the young rider had caught his attention. But no, the fields were empty now, yellowish tan hazing to green in the distance. Equally empty pale blue sky. Not a cloud. Not even a bird. Mal had noticed Wash liked watching birds.

He turned his head, and found himself caught by Wash's unblinking eyes. They fixed on his for a long moment before his pilot asked, "Bester got it done?" And Mal well knew that Wash already knew the answer, but couldn't squash the compulsion that made him ask anyway.

"Nope." He pivoted away, moving toward the stairs, saying, "Go hitch the trailer onto the mule. Got a load to pick up in town." When he got to his bunk, he triggered it open, climbing down to get his coat. Through the still open hatch, he heard the soft tread of Wash's deck shoes go past, heading aft. He spent a couple minutes sprucing up at his sink, then took himself down to the cargo bay. Wash had the mule wheeled up to the top of the ramp, and was finishing up fastening the trailer to its hitch.

"You drive," Mal ordered as he approached, gesturing toward the ATV.

Wash straightened, brows lifting. "I'm going?"

"Looks like. Unless y' got something better to do."

Wash waved an airy hand toward the engine room. "Could go up, help Bester."

Mal stared at him a moment, then grinned. "Your mama ever call you 'pig-headed'?"

Wash reared back a bit, blinking, then quirked him an answering smile. "Hell, no. She called me her 'sun-shiny, bright-beaming boy.'" He donned a prim, lofty expression, fingertips on his heart. "I never gave her a moment's trouble."

Mal grandly snorted his dubiousity, then pointed again at the mule. "You're driving, Sunshine."

Wash snorted back, then took hold of the mule's handlebars, slinging his leg over its seat, saying, "Yes, Mother." As he started the engine, Mal settled in behind him, dragging the tails of his coat into his lap so they wouldn't get caught in the rear wheels. Fella only needed to have that happen once to be wary ever after.

Wash eased them down the ramp, careful not to let the trailer jerk them around or to hit the dirt at the base of the ramp too hard. Could be 'cuz he was driving his captain. Could be 'cuz of his own lingering headache.

"Where we goin'?" he asked over the engine noise, pushing them at a steady clip through the soft earth of the field.

Mal leaned forward to say in his ear, "Sundry store, t' pick up some supplies I ordered, protein and the like."

They rolled on a bit before Wash called back, "Does that order include fish sauce?"

Grinning, Mal replied, "Zoe wants fish sauce, she can buy it her own self. 'Sides, her favorite brand only comes off Newhall."

After a moment, Wash bobbed his head. "Okay then. Can steer my way around Newhall easy enough."

Mal chuckled and decided not to let Wash know upon which moon he bought his precious habanero paste.

Hitting the edge of asphalt that marked the beginning of the town's proper street, Mal pointed over Wash's shoulder at the sundry store's front. Pulling up to it, Wash cut the engine, then waited for Mal to dismount before getting off himself.

The next half hour was spent lugging cases out of the shop, Wash hoisting as many as Mal, making sure their weight was balanced out carefully on the trailer. A few genial queries from Mrs. MacGregor had Wash rising above the fading malaise of his hangover to take on his role of entertainer, spinning out a tale of fancy flying and crazy cargo which had her gasping and giggling. Her grandson, still silent, followed closely behind Wash's heels, back and forth out of the shop, listening intently, hauling as many boxes as his young strength could handle.

As Mal paid the bill, Wash tightened the cargo net around their packages, telling the kid to give all the tie-downs a good tug to make sure they were secure. Mal handing the boy a couple two-bit coins got his first words from him, a murmured "Thank you, Captain."

Clearly pleased by the windfall of Serenity's business, Mrs. MacGregor closed their deal by slipping a peppermint stick into each of their front pockets. Then she gathered up her grandson, clucking about dinner soon to be on the table, and locked up her shop for the evening. Mal watched her and the lad head down the street into the deepening twilight, before turning and walking in the other direction. This caught Wash, preparing to get mounted up and back to the ship, by surprise, and it took him a moment to pull away from the vehicle to go trotting after Mal.

"Um," he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at their ladened mule when he caught up.

"Safe enough, I reckon," Mal replied, as he stepped up onto the porch stretching before the entrance of the bar. There Wash balked, halting on the street.

"I don't know if this is a good idea, Captain."

Mal paused, one foot up on the porch, the other on asphalt, to peer questioningly at his pilot.

"Mal, I just can't." Wash adopted a wide-eyed, comically overly earnest expression. "I'll fess up. I'm a complete and utter light-weight. Many, many people, from one end of the the 'verse to the other, much to my virtue's chagrin, have discovered I'm an extremely cheap date. And, if I drink even a fraction as much tonight as I did last night, I'll probably barf all over your boots."

Mal laughed, reaching out to slap Wash's shoulder. "So we'll drink pop. Maybe they got a ginger ale. My ma swore by ginger to settle a stomach."

"Really? Mine did too."

"Sure enough? So ginger ale or maybe tea, and after that – know y' haven't eaten all day – your innards might be up for what they got on special."

Wash licked his lips, wavering, clearly at that stage of crapulous recovery where a person's body craved nutrients while their stomach maintained a justifiable wariness.

Mal then ventured tentatively, not exactly sure where Wash felt he'd left things with Sullivan the night before, "Could be Lara'll turn up."

Wash's eyes flickered, his expressions obscure behind his lush mustache, although Mal caught something like need and something like shame and a flash of something he didn't have a name for, wild and dark.

"Could be she will," Wash replied, pushing past him, up onto the porch and through the doors. Mal looked after his back for a moment, wondering when his dinosaur-playing pilot had got so complicated, before following him in up to the bar.

They followed the pattern they'd set the night before, although they had ginger ale in their pint glasses, and Wash approached his plate of stir-fry slowly and cautiously. And when they got around to playing darts, it was Wash watching the door. On the lookout for Sullivan, Mal was sure.

They were a half-hour or so into their game when they heard it. Wash understood what it was before Mal did, the last dart he threw still quivering in the board as he bolted out the door into the street. Mal joined him there, his own darts still in his hand, as he peered up into the neon blue night, following his pilot's gaze. Above them, a ship, a mid-sized transport by the bulk of her dark silhouette, sank slowly toward the port at the end of the street, her red and green running lights flashing rhythmically. Other bar customers followed them out, voices lifted in excited conjecture.

They watched her touch down, a tad gracelessly to Mal's ever more knowing eye. Although they were too far away to read the ship's chop on the bow in the dim light, Wash stated, "That's the Golden Dawn."

While Mal didn't recognize her by configuration, he did know her name once he heard it, and so, her captain. "Jasper Renshaw's boat."

"Yeah, yeah, Renshaw!" Wash nodded his recognition of the man's name. "He was pretty hot for me to sign on with him a few months ago."

Mal indulged his curiosity, asking a question he'd held onto for months. "Why didn't you?"

Wash shrugged. "Well, y' know. Serenity." Then he waved a dismissive hand toward the landing ship, the sound of her pods winding down carrying easily up the street. "Dawn's all right as Gongnuis go. But that whole class is like flyin' a brick." He paused a moment, then continued, voice soft with speculation, "Of course, she is, currently, a flying brick."

Mal shot him a look, not liking the direction his thoughts seemed to be wandering. Putting a hand on Wash's shoulder, he said, "Serenity will be flying, any time now."

Shoving his hands in his pockets, Wash slanted him a sideways glance. "Well. Yeah. 'Course she will."

Using his grip on Wash's shoulder, he applied judicious pressure, aiming him back into the bar. "Let's finish our game."

Wash nodded, allowing himself to be steered back inside. He kept his eyes on the Golden Dawn, though, until the very last moment he stepped through the door.

Mal realized that a functioning ship just a few hundred meters down the street must have been looming large in Wash's mind. His next round of darts landed all over the board, one even bouncing off the metal rim. And the guy didn't even seem to notice. And very shortly after that, Mal realized that he probably should have abandoned the game altogether and headed back to Serenity. Because the door to the bar swung open and Renshaw stepped through, followed by a passel of crew. The man's eyes lit first thing on Wash, and with a laugh that filled the whole room, he headed straight for him, arms outstretched. And Wash was looking pleased and flustered at the same time, grinning and blushing.

Mal had actually met Jasper Renshaw – bald as an egg, stocky, with broad shoulders that made him appear shorter than he was – during the war, twice. Man had never signed up, on either side, though he'd only ever run goods for the Independents and sometimes a neutral world caught up in the war's chaos. Didn't make his business any less risky, though, as more than a few of those free-wheeling entrepreneurs, when snagged by the Tze Fu, were convicted and even executed on smuggling and treason charges. Still, Mal could never bring himself to much like those in Renshaw's line of work. While Renshaw himself had never gouged, charging far more than his goods were worth, the same couldn't be said of all those running supplies to the troops, especially during those last, desperate days. And Renshaw had always expected to be paid, in full and up front, even when his clients were near naked, starving, and short on cash.

It was with a certain measure of self-aware irony that Mal had to acknowledge he was in much the same line of business these days as Renshaw had been then, and that he certainly expected to be paid for the jobs he did, no matter what. This didn't lessen the unease he felt as the man barreled down on his pilot, to sling an arm over his shoulders and exclaim, "Washburne! Good to see ya, son." He fixed his pale brown, almost yellow, eyes on Mal, and jerked his chin in his direction. "How's this buxiubianfu hun dan treatin' you?"

"Good, Captain Renshaw. Real good." Wash shot Mal a look, an apology for talking about him behind his back right in front of him.

"Where's that first mate of his? She here?" Renshaw cast his gaze about, perhaps a bit warily. On not seeing her, he went on, "Why, I could see why a fella might sign on his boat just to get a gander at her on a daily basis. She treatin' y' good too?"

"She's... back on the ship. And, and she's a great XO. A guy always knows exactly where he stands with her." Mal couldn't help but be impressed by this extremely diplomatic assertion on Wash's part.

"So what's this with you sittin' out there in the dirt? Heard some wave-chatter you'd been grounded. Was planning to cruise this area anyway, but that chatter led me to light down, see if we could help out in any way."

"Naw," Mal broke in. "Was just a simple glitch. And now I got my mechanic doing some overdue maintenance. We ain't grounded. Just takin' some needed down-time."

"Sure, Reynolds," Renshaw said, his agreeableness somehow calling to question the seriousness of his ship's troubles. "Hey, Wash, you know my crew, right?" He slid his hand across Wash's shoulder to palm the back of his neck, pointing his attention to the rest of Renshaw's people. He ran through a quick introduction of them all; his XO, a mechanic, a couple brawny security folk, one female, one male, and a cook, all of them looking sleek, clean, dressed in shing so flash, all of them except Renshaw sporting expensive jewelery.

"And my pilot, Reece," Renshaw finished up, gesturing to a tall guy in a near-military tailored flight-suit, a fat, gold ring dangling from his left earlobe. "And that's it. Runnin' one berth short, as I'm still looking to fill that co-pilot's seat. Folks, this is Washburne." He reached out to poke his pilot with one stiff finger. "Know you heard of him, Reece. The fellow who did that run off Athens in aught-seven, the guy who Crazy Ivaned himself out that ambush with the destroyer."

"Oh!" The man's eyes widened. "That Washburne!" He extended his hand to Wash, who took it tentatively. "Never actually met anyone came out alive after trying that maneuver."

"Oh. Well." Wash shrugged. "Just need the right ship, with the right people in the engine room."

Mal, of course, now intensely curious as to what a "Crazy Ivan" might be, still wasn't about to ask, to expose his ignorance. Plus, he was getting a tad more curious about what his pilot had been up to during the war. Man never said, and Mal had taken Tanaka's raves on faith. (Wash's leg-long recommendations would have meant nothing without that.) Was true that Tanaka's loyalties lay with the space between worlds rather than to any particular planet itself. Same as Zoe, in a way, as her first loyalties had been to a ship and the family on it, and their freedom to fly and do business as they pleased. Until an Alliance cruiser had gutted that ship, extinguishing all five generations of her family, leaving only her, by freak chance, alive. And alone.

All that didn't matter though. Whatever their reasons for joining the Independents, they'd been against the Alliance. And Mal knew Tanaka would never vouch for a guy who'd officially signed up with the Purple Bellies. Mal had wondered if Wash had run supplies for the Alliance as a civilian, never actually joining their space force. He had preferred not to know, if that were the case. But it was kinda looking like maybe he'd gone down the wrong track there, because the only destroyers that had orbited Athens in '07 had belonged to the Alliance.

"Yeah, so, like I said, we're all full up, nice and cozy. 'Cept for that co-pilot's slot." Renshaw used his hand on the back of Wash's neck to steer him toward the bar, pulling him away from the dart game. "Gonna order a round. Whatcha drinkin', Wash?" Renshaw's crew shifted in behind him, a screen between Mal and their captain.

And Mal's pilot.

He felt a sudden sharp pang of possessiveness, one that surprised him, as the only person he'd ever felt that emotion for was a girl he'd gotten serious about before the war. And Zoe, actually, those times the brass had tried to promote her out of his unit. And he figured it was like that. Just like Zoe'd been his corporal, Wash was his pilot, and he'd be good and gorrammed before he'd allow someone to abscond with one of his people. He came to the conclusion he might have to put another name on his "Looking To Get Himself Shot" list.

The knot moving toward the bar suddenly stopped, Wash having planted his feet, forcing the Golden Dawn's people to slide to either side of him and their boss. "Ah, no, thanks, Captain." Wash turned to face Renshaw with a lopsided smile, shrugging one shoulder. And this eased him smoothly out from under the man's hand. "Kinda overdid it last night." Wash flicked a quick glance at Mal, and that, plus the stiff set of his stance, told Mal Wash knew what was up, that these were Renshaw's opening moves in trying to woo the pilot away from Mal's boat.

"Yeah?" Renshaw replied. "Well, good for you for cuttin' back, then. How 'bout a soda?" With an approving smile, his hand came back up onto Wash's shoulder, turning him again away from Mal, toward the bar. And Wash, his resistance weakening, allowed himself to be shifted.

Not about to let Renshaw have his way with his man, 'specially not right before his very eyes, Mal moved in, cutting between the cook and the gunman. He set his own hand on Wash's other shoulder, which again brought the pilot to a halt, rounded eyes swiveling to meet Mal's.

Mal made himself grin, to say apologetically, "Sorry t' cut the evenin' short, Wash, but we got a load of supplies to see to."

"Oh. Ah. That's right." Wash let the weight of Mal's hand pull him a half step toward him, as he said in all sincerity, "Sorry, Captain Renshaw. Gonna have to pass on that soda."

"Catch ya later then, Washburne," he replied jovially, releasing Wash's shoulder. He cut a sly look at Mal, then smiling, said, "I'll be in touch."

Wash grinned, nodding, lifting a hand in silent goodbye to the rest of Golden Dawn's crew as Mal steered him toward the exit.

And as they stepped out, Mal stifled a curse, 'cuz Sullivan was just setting her foot onto the porch. They all three of them froze, her dark green eyes going wide. Wash made a kinda fizzing noise, lots like the lit fuses on the black powder Mal used to blow tree stumps with on the ranch. And he wanted nothing better than to shove the man into Sullivan's arms and hightail it for Serenity. If he coulda been sure she would just sweep Wash up and make off with him, he woulda done it.

Didn't know though. Just didn't know. If she wanted anything to do with the man after last night. Or if she might, but her partner didn't. And if they both did, what would happen after Mal left them together on the porch. Would she take him straight home? Or back into the bar, to warm up a little more respectably over drinks and chat? Into territory fraught with Renshaw's dangerous presence.

'Cuz another thing he didn't know was just how far Renshaw was willing to go. Truth be told, Mal wouldn't put it past him to shanghai his pilot and then work at sweetening the situation enough so that Wash would go along with it. The guy had what? Some plastic toys and a few gaudy shirts physically tying him to Serenity. How hard would those things be to replace? Could they compete against what Mal knew would be the sweetest thing of all for Wash? Soaring free of the world and into the Black? Didn't feel at all comfortable leaving him to wander about unsupervised.

With a smile that felt more like a spastic grimace, Mal clamped his fingers around Wash's biceps, pulling him to one side, saying, "'Scuse us, Ms Sullivan. Just on our way out." He kept moving, Wash's legs working stiffly as Mal hauled him around the woman and into the street. She pivoted to watch them go, and Wash was walking backwards by the time Mal got him to the mule, eyes fixed on her.

At the ATV, Mal let him go, giving him a little push toward the controls. Mechanically, Wash straddled the saddle, got the engine revving. All by feel, 'cuz he was still staring at Sullivan. Mal threw his leg over the seat, sliding in behind Wash, then giving him a sharp poke in the back to goad him into putting the mule in gear.

Wash took a long moment before complying. Then he lifted one hand. Sullivan mirrored his gesture, metal glinting in the light from the bar's windows. Wash shifted into first, rolling the mule forward, then twisting the handlebars into a U-turn, pointing them out of town. Which meant driving by the landing pads, one now occupied by a space-worthy vessel. And ladened as the mule was, they had to go slow. But maybe not as slow as Wash had them puttering past, his eyes definitely not on the road as he gazed up at the ship looming in the dark. Mal felt him take in some long, deep breaths, and he sniffed the air himself, taking note of the lingering scent of exhaust from the engine pods.

The mule bumped down the four centimeter drop off where asphalt ended and dirt began, and Wash turned his attention forward, flicking the headlights on to avoid pot-holes. The drive back to Serenity was longer, slower, than the trip out, wallowing through the loose earth of the soybean field with the loaded trailer, and, except for the roar of the engine, silent.

~*~

buxiubianfu – scruffy

feng le – crazy

Gongnui – "Ox," a class of mid-sized transport vessel

hun dan – bastard

shing so – spacer, "star hand"

Tze Fu – Purple Bellies