Chapter 4

The lights in the infirmary were dimmed and the room eerily quiet. Mal leaned against the cabinet, his arms crossed and his posture casual, but his thoughts were anything but relaxed and casual as he stared at the man lying motionless on the medical bed.

Wash hadn’t been asleep long, but Mal was glad he was finally resting, even if it was only a light doze. Unable to handle listening to and watching the pilot’s agony any longer, Simon had finally given him a localized nerve block, despite his medical reservations. Sometimes, you just had to go by your gut and not the book, and Mal was grateful the doc had up and done it. Saved him the trouble of threatening to shoot the young man if he didn’t, which is what would have happened if the doc hadn’t acted first. The medication left Wash pretty much completely numb from the shoulders down, which under normal circumstances would have concerned him, tough to fly that way, but the exhausted, hurting pilot had welcomed it with tears of relief. It would wear off in a few hours, but it had at least allowed them to finish the gruesome task of cleaning their friend up.

Mal felt the anger that had been smoldering flare up again as he looked his friend over. He still wore his filthy flight suit from the waist down, but Simon had left his upper body bare to aid healing and save him more discomfort, so Mal had a perfect view of all Wash’s injuries. The hideous feathers and tar were gone now, removed after hours of painful scrubbing, but Wash’s skin was left red and raw, burned everywhere the hot tar had touched it. Where it had been smeared on first while the tar was at its hottest, across his chest and back, it had pooled slightly and the pilot now had worrisome second and even one third degree burn.

Unfortunately, the burns weren’t the end of it. As the tar was cleared from Wash’s skin, other various injuries had emerged. Mottled black and blue and purple bruises were littered across his face, back, chest, and arms, mute testimony to the treatment the man had endured first. Wash hadn’t mentioned it, but Mal knew the results of a sound beating when he saw them, and it just added more kindling to the already angry fire growing inside him.

As Simon had worked slowly and carefully to clear the gunk from Wash’s burned back, he had uncovered something else that almost sent the captain through the roof. Among the burns and bruises lay seven, long, bloody welts. Mal had let a short, harsh curse out when he realized what they were while Inara gasped, Zoë’s eyes darkened with deadly fury, and Simon had pursed his lips tightly together as he continued to work. Now wasn’t the time, but Mal vowed that sometime in the very near future, someone was going to pay dearly for this, and he knew at least one warrior woman who’d be backing him up…no, actually if he was reading the signs right, he’d probably be running just to keep up with said warrior woman as she charged forward with murderous intent.

Still plotting painful revenge, Mal had watched as Simon cleaned and treated the wounds, until something strange had caught his eye. None of the others seemed to notice, or be surprised, but Mal was rather confused and more than a little shocked. Sketched lightly across his pilot’s back, almost hidden beneath the fresh injuries, Mal noticed the faint, white lines of scars crisscrossing the skin, like distant echoes of the harsh, new ones but dimmed almost to invisibility by time. Distractedly, Mal stared at the marks, not even realizing until he was done that he was counting them: twelve, maybe fifteen. What on earth? That was just…wrong…not to mention all kinds of confusing!

And then Simon had reached Wash’s hands and all thoughts of strange, white scars had been driven from Mal’s mind.

Wash’s hands were…well… Mal stopped recalling the last few hours and just stared at them, not quite able to process the sight yet. Both were badly broken, practically crushed, and his fingers were no better. The bones had been snapped and they were grotesque and swollen, and six of them ended with no nails. Mal shuddered as he thought of how painful that must have been, and took a step closer, stopping next to the bed in the center of the room and the man sleeping on it.

His hands were lying motionless and limp at his sides, still untreated except for a few bandages to help stop the bleeding and a clotting agent added to the IV dripping slowing into a vein in the crook of Wash’s arm, replacing much needed fluids. The pilot’s hands would need several hours of surgery, but Simon wanted the nerve block to clear Wash’s system before he medicated the pilot up again and tried to pin them back together. In the meantime, the doctor was off with Zoë and Kaylee, checking the Cortex for the latest techniques and using the time to prepare while giving Wash a brief period to rest.

And leaving Mal with nothing to do, seething with rage and chomping at the bit to do something about it, find those responsible and deal out some, good old-fashioned justice.

Unable to look away for long, the captain’s eyes were drawn to Wash’s terribly abused hands once more. Simon assured everyone that he could fix them, they would eventually be as good as new, but that didn’t change the fact that Wash wasn’t gonna be doing any piloting anytime soon, which was horribly frustrating for Wash and downright inconvenient for him.

Cursing quietly but heavily in Chinese, Mal sighed deeply and ran his fingers through his hair. “What did they do to ya, Wash?” he whispered in frustration. “Run the mule over yer gorram hands?” The captain let his shoulders slump and his head fall forward.

“Actually, I think it was a chair leg, or maybe one from a table. The truth is, I really didn’t take the time to study it too closely.”

Mal jumped slightly at the quiet, rough voice and glanced up to see bright, pain-filled blue eyes staring back at him.

“Didn’t mean ta wake ya,” he apologized gently.

“You didn’t. Wasn’t asleep.”

“Meds wearing off?” Mal asked, genuinely concerned. Wash just nodded, looking away.

“Need me ta get the doc?”

“No,” the pilot said simply. “Nothin’ he can do anyway.” He glanced with anger and regret at his mangled hands.

“Simon says they’ll be fine.”

“Simon talks too much.”

Mal sensed the deep well of bitterness in his usually cheerful pilot and decided to skirt that issue for now.

“So, wanna tell me what happened out there today?” he asked. His words were kind, but laced with his firm captain’s voice so Wash would know it wasn’t a request.

Wash sighed. If he could have, he would have brought an arm up to shield his face, but the lingering nerve block made it so his limbs still weren’t responding to his orders. “I got snatched, Mal, by bad guys. You know, those lovely types of people you seem to attract so much.”

“Hey, not just me!” Mal protested, pretending to be hurt. “Half the time it’s Jayne’s fault, or Simon’s, or River’s.”

Wash just glared at him tiredly. “That’s three halves, Mal.”

“An’ that’s why you’re the pilot, an’ I’m the captain. Pilots do math, so captains don’t have to. So, anyway, wanna give me some specifics on these bad guys,” Mal prodded, kidding aside.

“Not particularly.”

“Don’t think I was offering ya a choice, Wash.”

“Maybe they just took exception to my uncommonly handsome and manly good looks?”

“Wash…”

The pilot sighed again. “Look, Mal, it doesn’t really matter. They’re long gone by now anyway.”

“I’ll be the judge of what does or doesn’t matter on this boat. My crew gets hurt, I wanna know how, why, and who. I conjure you’re still a member of my crew, dong ma?”

Wash looked away from him and stared at the wall, his face wrinkled with pain, and Mal didn’t know if it was from his injuries, or the unpleasantness of sifting through still-fresh bad memories. Finally, the injured man spoke again, refusing to meet the captain’s eyes.

“Don’t know their names. I’m not sure if they just conveniently forgot to tell me, or I was too busy with the pain and the screaming and the passing out to remember, but either way I don’t know.”

A horrible thought, one that had been nibbling at the back of his mind since he had walked in and seen Wash covered in tar and feathers, pushed itself to the front of Mal’s brain.

“Niska?” he asked softly. A chill went up his own spine as he said it, and he couldn’t help but notice Wash flinch slightly before he answered.

“We both know it weren’t Niska, Mal. Would’a been sent back in a match box if it were, or more likely, not sent back at all.”

“Then who?” Mal pressed. “They sent ya back with everything intact, didn’t even pick your gorram pockets! And yet, they beat the tar outta ya, Wash, fer three hours. Now, I wanna know why.”

“I know they did. I was there, remember?”

“Then quit dancin’ around it and tell me why!”

“To get to you.”

Wash’s voice was soft with pain and regret and for a moment, his blunt words failed to penetrate. “Huh?”

“I’m just the message, Mal. Don’t remember who Mr. Pony-Tail said he was, but whoever he is he’s got a powerful dislike of you, that much I know. Pounded it into me, you might say. He did all this just to make a point, and then let me go to make sure I came back here so you could get it loud and clear.” Wash closed his eyes. “I didn’t wanna play his games, Mal, be part of his plan, but it hurt so bad all I could think of was getting home, even though I knew that was just doin’ what he wanted.”

The fury that had been building inside of the captain’s soul all night finally erupted. He spun around and slammed his fist into the pad of the empty counter that also doubled as a second bed, swearing furiously in two languages. It was several minutes before he could see through the red in front of his eyes enough to trust himself to turn around again.

Wash was watching him, an unreadable expression painted across his burned and bruised face. “I’m sorry,” he said brokenly.

Mal forced himself to breath deeply and regain control. “Nothin’ for you to be sorry about. Ain’t none of this your fault. I’m the one that should be sorry for puttin’ ya in a situation to be takin’ shots that should be aimed at me.”

“Still, should’ve fought harder and been less of an easy target.”

“Gorramit, Wash, I hired ya to be a pilot, not a fighter. Got Zoë and Jayne for that. And it ain’t now nor never will be your fault that knowin’ me painted a bright red target on yer back!”

“So, ya know who did this?” Wash asked, not acknowledging the captain’s attempts to dissuade his guilt.

“Not a clue, but I aim to be rectifyin’ that shortly. You know where they held ya at?”

“Well, yeah, some warehouse, a couple streets south of here, but Mal, they ain’t gonna be there still! It’s been hours!”

“And they might still be there, thinkin’ we’re long gone by now. Either way, I aim ta find out. They got things to explain and a lot to atone for.”

Mal turned to leave the room but stopped when Wash called after him. The pilot struggled to push himself up on one elbow and pierced him with a very serious gaze, one of the most serious he had ever seen come from the man. “Be careful, Mal, and please don’t let Zoë do anything stupid.”

“Never known Zoë to do anything stupid.”

“She married me…” Wash replied, echoing a distant unfinished conversation from their past.

“Stick by what I just said, Wash. You think on that.” Then Mal turned and left the room, his eyes growing cold with anger and purpose. “Zoë!” he hollered up the steps to the bridge. “Jayne! Get yerselves down to the cargo hold! We got a job ta do!”