Mal

Mal raised his head and greeted Lee with a genuine smile. “Is this a rescue?”

Lee smiled in return. “It is.”

“Glad you showed up. Things might’ve started to get ugly,” deadpanned Mal.
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Sergeant Dye sat with his elbows on his desk and his face buried in his hands, trying to settle his stomach and chase away the guilt that was gnawing at him.

He’s an Independent war criminal. He deserves it.

His mind shifted to his son’s picture on the shelf, staring out with the confidence of a young man who had no idea he would die after only a week in the field. His sister, crying hysterically in grief the day an Independent strike took the life of her five-year-old daughter.
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Warning:  This chapter is grim, violent, and not written to be “fun” to read……be warned, and feel free to skip if need be. I officially scare myself now, just so y’all know.

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“Why didn’t you tell me!” Wash yelled. “You – you –”

Mal drew a deep breath, opting for absolute honesty. “Because this could destroy me. I’m gonna walk into a courtroom in a couple days an’ listen to the Alliance end my life. Only way through that is to look straight ahead, an’ there’s nobody can do that for me.”

Wash gulped. “I –I want-”

Mal cut him off, a sort of steel in his voice. “I know you wanna help, an’ you want to be a friend. But there’s some nightmares a man has to walk through alone. Having friends along for the ride’ll rip me to shreds, dong ma?”
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Remembering Wash’s self-assured treatment of Straaker, Mal picked up a blanket and walked back outside, offering it wordlessly to Wash. Wash’s eyes softened gratefully, and Mal helped him wrap it around his shoulders and bury his face in the figment of shelter. Unlike Straaker, Wash wasn’t crying. His haunted expression was far too tight and – numb – for tears.

“Khiloh left this for ya’,” said Mal quietly, perching the puppet on Wash’s shoulder, the soft fleece near his face. He figured even a grown man might find it a comfort after spending a week in a concrete cell. Wash rested his head against it with a tiny smile and closed his eyes.

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Mal groaned, blinking his eyes open and trying to focus through the blinding light. Heavy footsteps padded over, and Gray spoke with an obvious attempt to keep his voice low and soft. “Got a big cup of water and your pain meds here, might make downing ‘em a priority.”

“Got a gun?” Mal asked.

“Uh……no,” said Gray.
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For once, Mal was glad for the cuffs on his wrists. He was fair certain they were the only thing holding him together; that without something to anchor him in reality, the vortex spinning around him would simply steal him away, ripping him apart like it had the fragments of his world. Numbed to his surroundings by shock and alcohol, he staggered and tried to focus when he felt Khiloh remove the handcuffs. They were standing in a yard somewhere, the cover officer nowhere to be seen. The yard spun, and he closed his eyes.

“Spill,” Khiloh ordered gently. If Mal heard him, it was in a distant corner of his brain that he would only discover minutes later. There was no flicker of reaction or acknowledgement on his face. “Mal,” the guard pressed, “what happened in there? What did Lee say?”

Mal looked at Khiloh dizzily. “That I’m a war criminal.”
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“Get Malcolm Reynolds, inmate INDVHSH5603 up to my office,” Lee ordered.

“Yes, sir,” the bored assistant replied. He poked his head back into the office a moment later. “Sir, he’s currently in medical. They’ll bring him up here next.”

~~~~~

“How are you feeling?” asked Kelli, probing carefully at the wound on Mal’s forehead.

“Developin’ a phobia of dessert plates. You?” replied Mal with a mischievous grin.
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Khiloh sighed. “Wash had a rough time when he got here, and it took him a real long spell to adjust. Back then I was the new guy with a lot of training in how to hurt people, and no bloody clue how to help them.”

“Appears you learned,” said Mal.

“I think – Wash taught me,” said Khiloh simply. “As hurt and scared and pissed off as he was really open, and he – he – showed me what it was he was going through, an’ let me help.” Read the rest of this entry »

The small group awoke early the next morning, looking around hopefully as though Wash might have returned in the night without their knowing. He was still gone, the absence of his easygoing, cheerful presence making itself known in the form of an unusual sobriety in the air.

Mal stood with a groan, fingering the wound on his forehead and glancing down at his arm, which had developed into vivid shades of purple. Gray lay motionless on his bunk with his eyes closed, and Straaker was making a valiant if misguided attempt at sitting and pretending nothing was wrong. Mal swallowed one of the pain pills he’d been given at the hospital and limped over to Gray, the ache in his leg reminding him his arm hadn’t been the only place that hun dahn had hit him.
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