Mal, in a room above the bar.

[ooc: Check out the millitunes gmail account for Mal's song - Moby: 'In This World'.]

Zoe...or was it Death? had just left after depositing one Malcolm Reynolds in a room upstairs from the bar to sober the fuck up.

The room was simple; no one had claimed it for their own yet. A bed that looked comfortable enough, not that Mal wasn't afraid of it anyway. How cold it would be. Turning away from it, Mal claims a chair from the corner - all cherrywood and high-backed. Nice and stable.

Taking off his duster, Mal pulls out the contents of the many pockets. There's a lot of little things; a couple of keys on straps, a pen, a small folded art knife - he had been working on his brushes earlier. The last two items he pulls out are his iPod and the vial Faith gave him. He goes for the iPod first. Random setting.

Mal's first song comes up - Moby. "In this World."

Lordy don't leave me, all by myself...

Mal's face breaks as well as something else in the vicinity of his sternum. As slowly as he's ever moved before, he takes off his holster - the black one. He had forgotten which one he was wearing.

Good time's the devil...

Taking the time to remove the gun, he bellows and throws the holster into a wall.

"GORRAMIT INARA!" Mal thinks people could hear him scream in the Bar downstairs. But no one hears him. Somewhere in his head, it occurs to Mal that no one has heard him for a really long time.

So many times I'm down Down down With the ground Lordy don't leave me All by myself Whoa, in this world...

The song ends, and Mal takes off his boots and shirt to sleep. Heh.

Stretching out on the bed, Mal turns his head to the nighttable, where Faith's vial looms. With promise.

Dealing with them isn't the same as making them go away.

I don't want to deal with them. Just make them go away.

Mal uncorks the vial and downs it in one swallow. Bitter tasting, worse than all the liquor he's had tonight. The promise of sleep is too tempting, though, and Mal wipes his mouth with the back of his hand before rolling over to sprawl across the king-size bed.

Sleep. Passing Out. Whatever works. At least he isn't dreaming.