badinlatin | Mal-Wash, kinda OOM.

Wash, meanwhile, has decided that he doesn't love snow as much as he thought he did. When it's been on the ground for over a week, and has had the chance to thaw and re-freeze and re-melt all over again, it's downright horrific.

Especially when you've still got a lame leg.

A lame leg that, even though you can't move it, still gets to hurt in ways you didn't even think a leg could hurt.

He's never seen the stables; at this point in his outdoor adventure, though, they're closer than the bar. Slowly, he picks his way over on the everpresent crutches and nudges open the door.

Mal hears the door creaking open but doesn't really look up until the creaking is accompanied by a steady and rather unique walking pattern.

Mal stands up to find another glass.

"Wèi, Wash."

"I'm sawing off my leg."

Squeak. Thump. He's scowling.

"I'm sawing it off, and I'm pawning one of the shuttles to get a shiny new biometric one that actually works, and why the hell aren't we anywhere near Lavinia yet, Mal? Forget the extender. I won't ask for a new extender. I just want to walk before New Year's. Tāmāde..."

He flops down near where Mal was sitting, chucks the crutches aside, and starts to shuck off his gloves, hat, and scarf. Yesterday put him in a pretty nasty mood, too. Apparently, it hasn't quite let up.

Mal curls a lip, ready to spit out...something. Anything that will make him feel like he won any sort of point recently with anyone.

It wouldn't do any good.

"I'm...working on it, Wash. 'S the best I got."

The second glass gets filled with the bottle at the end of the cot where Mal had been sitting and is handed to Wash before Mal sits down to his flask again.

"Xiexie."

Wash takes a long gulp and rubs a hand over his right leg, wincing.

"It couldn't have gone numb, too," he mutters to himself. "It had to get paralyzed, but oh, no, let's let the pilot feel everything when we decide to rise up in great, violent, nervy rebellion and -- ow," he adds, and takes another swallow of alcohol. "Ruttin'...."

"Um, Wash?" Mal asks, running one hand through his hair while memorizing the dents in the side of his flask resting against his knee, "Not that I don't appreciate ya comin' or no apparent reason at all to somewhere I never knew ya went, but why'd ya come out here if y'are in so much pain?"

It's not an unconcerned tone Mal has.

"Shorter walk to get here than back to the bar," he grumbles. "It just started hurting."

He glances around.

"So. Stables. Large, mildly terrifying animals." Beat. "Something resembling heat. This is nice."

Gulp.

Swig. Rattle.

The flask is empty.

"Yup. Better 'n sittin' in the gorram mo shu bar, where anyone from ruttin' anywhere can just show up. Gorramit."

He eyes Mal.

"I'm thinking of a name. Tell me if I'm right. It starts with 'G' and ends in 'abriel Tam.'"

Mal effeminately places both hands on his chest, palms down - a ladylike gesture and tone of surprise.

"Why however did you guess? It must be" hands dropping, voice returning to normal "that my rather fantastic desire to not be in jail forever beats me wantin' to feed 'im to the shark by..."

He ponders. Then holds his thumb almost to his forefinger.

"This much."

"There's a shark? We have a shark?"

He thinks.

"Oh, yeah. That shark."

Another sip.

"I can come along when you snap and do it, right?"

"Oh absolutely.

"I'll sell tickets, even. Buy you that shiny new leg."

He cracks a smile. "Knew there was a reason I was flyin' with you."

Wash takes a moment to set down the glass and roll up his sleeves. There's a small snort.

"I tried being nice," he says. "And understanding, after the not-nice bit. I thought I was doin' fine."

Mal shakes his head.

"Don't think I ever had a shot to be nice even if I really 'ad wanted to - gun in the face thing and all, last time."

Mal clenches one fist and grimaces, his voice raising slightly. "And how I very much desire to wipe that fake-as-'ell yuben de grin off o' both their faces, when they thinkin' obviously things not too much with the nice 'bout folk."

A loud groan. "Lăotiān Yé, yes. Least I was being honest when I was a bastard, right? I mean...ain't like I like 'em. Or trust 'em. I'd like to try and like 'em for Kaylee and River and Simon's sake, but if all they're gonna do is start yelling about me not knowing a damn thing when I just tried to explain that -- "

Wash makes a small noise of frustration and punctuates it with another gulp. His glass is nearly empty by now; he rattles it in Mal's direction. "Got any more?"

Getting drunk when the bar's this far away is such a bad idea. Strangely, Wash is starting to find that he doesn't care.

"Hell yes I do, gorramit."

Mal reaches around the other side of the cot and reveals the nondescript bottle of...something alcoholic.

"Not quite sure what it is at this point. Not carin' so much." Refilling Wash's glass, he continues with, "I know what ya mean, man - I thought he was 'bout 20 seconds from tellin' me how to run my own gorram life, dong ma?"

"Uh-huh."

The pain in his leg's dulled a good bit already. Better take another sip to make sure it stays that way.

"What'd he say to you?"

A rankling laugh, and Mal tips his nose up in the air.

"Called me cong ming de 'n said I wa'n't aware o'...how'd he say it? Oh - 'I suspect you don't know the half of the truth that you evidently think you do.'"

If Wash rolled his eyes any harder, they'd end up halfway across the stable floor.

"Yep." Affecting a snooty Core accent, "'They're my children, and you have no idea what lengths I'd go to to protect my family!' Méiyŏu mŭqin de xiao gŏu. Can't wait 'til we gotta put up with 'em for the wedding. Wandering around the ship...āiyā."

He gestures with his glass, a little too emphatically. "He even touches my stuff on the bridge and I'll clock 'im. I'll do it. I swear to God."

If only he picked up on the whole putting-up-with-parents-for-wedding thing. Tsk tsk, Mal.

Commencing with the handflailing, "And if he so much as tries to lecture me on the food in the gorram kitchen, I'ma snap. I'm gonna snap and get thisclose to his face."

Mal stands, gesticulating even more, empty flask in hand.

"Don't fuckin' tell me what to goddamn do! 'S my ship, gorramit!"

Sitting back down again, sure of himself.

"That'll show 'im."

Wash nods, firmly, and raises his glass in acknowledgement.

"You're the cap'n." Gulp. "I can't boss you around, nobody can."

Pause. Scowl. "Bet he's one of those gorram ruttin' back-spaceship drivers, too. Be tryin' to land, and he'll be back there shoutin' out directions."

"I know, Wash! He'd be -- well, 'ere, he'd be like -- "

Mal puts down the empty flask finally and rests one wrist on Wash's left shoulder, making his fingers move like a hand puppet.

"Would ya look where ya goin'? Would ya turn? Would ya turn?"

Wash swats Mal's hand away.

Or tries to. He comes perilously close to missing.

"And I'd -- 'You wanna fly this thing? I'll pull over this spaceship right now!'"

Mal's wrist resumes position, but on the opposite shoulder.

"Would you pull over? Pull over right now! Jesus Christ Almighty I'll --"

More swatting ensues.

"Fine. Fine! You wanna fly?" Wash throws up both his arms, alcohol sloshing over the rim of his glass. "FUCKIN' FLY!"

Determined, as he takes another sip, "And then I'd get up an' go to my bunk. See what he does then."

Mal doesn't even notice the splashed liquor falling on his arm.

He leans back with a smug grin on his face.

"He wouldn't have one gorram clue, Wash. You show 'im."

"Absolutely. 'S your ship. But. But my bridge. Yeah?"

Equally smug.

"Hell yes. I mean, I could fly 'er, but not near as well as you get that bird to listen to ya. Almost jealous, actually."

Drunken Reveal Number One.

He shakes his head. "No no no, she ain't listenin' to me, I'm listenin' to her. 'S just...." More vague gestures. "Knowing. Feelin' it."

A sudden, bright grin, full of pride. "Even River can't hear her, y'know that?"

Mal has since picked up the bottle, drinking straight from it, faintly smiling.

"No I didn't, Wash. 'S nice."

"Yeah. Yeah."

Wash turns a thoughtful look to the contents of his glass, sobering a little.

"Scared the guĭ outta me when I came back an' you said she was flyin'. Thought I was gonna lose my job."

Mal shakes his head quickly. "Sorry y'ever got the notion o' that from me, man. Weren't even somethin' I thought o'."

Cough.

"The first time I thought on replacin' ya was the day 'fore I came back into the bar. I couldn't be flyin' the boat all the time and neither could River.

"And when I knew you were alive, well - weren't no thoughts on it anymore."

Wash looks up, eyes bright.

"'Cause 'm not leaving until Zoe does," he says, earnest. "And. And she's not gonna leave, either, s'long as you're there."

Mal smiles sincerely for the first time all night.

"Xiexie, Wash. That's...that's real nice o' you to say. Thanks."

Yup. New port extender.

"Say it 'cause it's true."

Wash finishes off the rest of his current glass -- then tilts his head, suddenly, and pokes his right leg a few times.

"Hey." It sounds like he's just had a grand epiphany. "My leg's not hurting."

With one finger pointing out the next great epiphany, "This could be because o' the booze."

Yes.

"...Hey, yeah."

He examines his empty glass.

Solemn, taking care to enunciate, "This was a good idea. You have lots've good ideas. Thanks."

"Damn straight I do."

Pause. He may not be as inebriated as Wash, but he's close.

"I'll think o' examples once I...y'know, think."

He nods, several times. "Thinking's good too."

With deliberate care, he puts down his glass.

Mal rolls his eyes at the assertion.

"Not really. But necessary. Like, um...

"We gonna be able to get back to the bar? 'S gorram cold."

Wash shudders. "I don't wanna." Then, resigned, after he mulls it over for a few more seconds, "Zoe'll get worried. But."

A mournful look at the crutches.

"'M drunk."

"Yup. Me too. Ain't near you yet though, so we should be alright with it."

Mal stands. A bit wobbly, but he stands.

"Can you get up?"

"You were drinking b'fore I even came in," he protests.

But he plants both hands on the cot, sets his good foot firmly, and hefts himself up.

Frantic flailing to grab Mal's shoulder soon follows. He has enough trouble balancing properly without his crutches when he's stone-cold sober.

Mal attempts bracing himself to keep Wash vertical, but both Wash and Mal end up sitting back down on the cot.

"Well. That didn't work."

"Crutches," Wash decides. "'S why I've got 'em."

He makes a grab for them.

The next attempt to stand goes...about the same, but this time, Wash manages to splay the crutches wide enough apart to keep himself upright.

"There!"

He looks far too proud of himself right now.

Mal stands a bit easier as well, once Wash is upright.

He leaves the bottle, now down to its dregs, sitting next to the cot.

"Off we go, then."

And you don't want to know how long it takes them to get back to the bar like this.

Really.

It's not like they're going to know how long it took in this state, either.

Mal-Wash, kinda OOM.

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