Mal, in his bunk.
Mar. 24th, 2006 03:18 pmAfter all the joking, all the "I'm fine, no worries, I'm shiny", Mal is finally back on the ship, and trying to will things back into normalcy.
He's also trying to will himself not to jump when he hears Jayne's tromp of their boots footsteps thundering on the catwalks above him in the cargo bay, or flinch when Inara moves to kiss him.
He's not having a whole lot of success with his current to-do list, and is thusly in his bunk, idly rearranging the few bits of precious he can't ever part with.
The War's been over for some time, now.
Everything has at least a fine layer of dust collected on it; Mal had been sleeping in Inara's shuttle more and more. Still does, even if Mal fights his own urge to recoil every time Inara comes near the newest addition to his collection of scars. He told her most of what happened, or the parts he could. Not War's kiss. Not the "Because I can."
Shoving a few heavier blankets away into a tiny closet, Mal spots a square board, riddled with holes filled with pinprick-sized divots.
Dartboard. Mal had forgotten he even bought one. A moment's further searching finds several broken darts - easy enough to fix, with parts from calligraphy brushes Mal had dismantled earlier in his stage of fidgeting. The dartboard is hung, the darts are fixed, and Mal perches on his cot, back against one wall, and idly chucks the weighted darts toward the center of the target.
This is boring as hell. Need something to focus on. Something to tack up on the dartboard, maybe?
Pictures from old newspapers Mal hadn't thrown away yet, from worlds Mal doesn't remember visiting. An old note - Don't worry about dinner - Inara; Mal moves on. Under the bottom of a particularly unwieldy stack of constellation charts, Mal finds his box of pictures from Shadow.
He passes quickly by pictures of Lilly and David and his mother, flipping through them without any real destination. The one picture he finds folded lengthwise in the back of the box is one from boot camp. All the members of his platoon - all of them, proud and straight and ready to serve...whatever planets they were all from - to the right of the insignia of the 57th Overlanders Platoon. Balls and rutting Bayonets Brigade.
A quick, precise tear seperates the image of his platoon from that of the insignia, the bright green banner to which they were all so loyal.
A thumbtack sticks the image to the center of the dartboard, and Mal reaches for his iPod, turning the music up as loud as possible. Eventually Mal finds a rhythm - three darts launched and their retrieval every ten beats or so. With the music up so loud, Mal easily drowns out the question sitting in his mind with every launch of agression and pointed metal.
How many goddamned times can I lose the same War?
He's also trying to will himself not to jump when he hears Jayne's tromp of their boots footsteps thundering on the catwalks above him in the cargo bay, or flinch when Inara moves to kiss him.
He's not having a whole lot of success with his current to-do list, and is thusly in his bunk, idly rearranging the few bits of precious he can't ever part with.
The War's been over for some time, now.
Everything has at least a fine layer of dust collected on it; Mal had been sleeping in Inara's shuttle more and more. Still does, even if Mal fights his own urge to recoil every time Inara comes near the newest addition to his collection of scars. He told her most of what happened, or the parts he could. Not War's kiss. Not the "Because I can."
Shoving a few heavier blankets away into a tiny closet, Mal spots a square board, riddled with holes filled with pinprick-sized divots.
Dartboard. Mal had forgotten he even bought one. A moment's further searching finds several broken darts - easy enough to fix, with parts from calligraphy brushes Mal had dismantled earlier in his stage of fidgeting. The dartboard is hung, the darts are fixed, and Mal perches on his cot, back against one wall, and idly chucks the weighted darts toward the center of the target.
This is boring as hell. Need something to focus on. Something to tack up on the dartboard, maybe?
Pictures from old newspapers Mal hadn't thrown away yet, from worlds Mal doesn't remember visiting. An old note - Don't worry about dinner - Inara; Mal moves on. Under the bottom of a particularly unwieldy stack of constellation charts, Mal finds his box of pictures from Shadow.
He passes quickly by pictures of Lilly and David and his mother, flipping through them without any real destination. The one picture he finds folded lengthwise in the back of the box is one from boot camp. All the members of his platoon - all of them, proud and straight and ready to serve...whatever planets they were all from - to the right of the insignia of the 57th Overlanders Platoon. Balls and rutting Bayonets Brigade.
A quick, precise tear seperates the image of his platoon from that of the insignia, the bright green banner to which they were all so loyal.
A thumbtack sticks the image to the center of the dartboard, and Mal reaches for his iPod, turning the music up as loud as possible. Eventually Mal finds a rhythm - three darts launched and their retrieval every ten beats or so. With the music up so loud, Mal easily drowns out the question sitting in his mind with every launch of agression and pointed metal.
How many goddamned times can I lose the same War?