Summary: Sex and lightly frittered Zoe angst, fortunately not in the same room

Creating Space
By Lemonlashes

Burdock is as nice a colony as you find on the fringes, a well-policed little asteroid with not one but three small towns and lots of scenery in between. When bad things happen aboard his boat, Burdock is where a certain Captain takes the ship. It's quiet there, relaxing. The crew can pick up pieces.

And bad things have happened lately, oh yeah--in the form of Mal's pilot getting himself kidnapped and some ferociously abused. Right now Serenity's practically pressurized by having so many upset and hurt people inside its bulkheads. So he's trotting out the shore leave cure: give everyone a little space.

The ship empties out quick enough once they've arrived. Jayne goes shopping for guns and ammo, and the Shepherd vanishes, muttering something about stopping in on an old colleague. Interesting that he doesn't say friend. Mal's not sure where the doctor went, but Inara invites Kaylee and River to flit off to one of the colony's faraway lakes in her shuttle. To tan? To skinny-dip? Mal wonders briefly, but mostly he's just relieved to wave goodbye.

As for the Captain, he's got a short list of engine parts to buy with an even shorter pile of cash.

He locks down the ship, leaving Wash and Zoe to themselves, and goes shopping. This'll help, he tells himself. Everything will be better tomorrow. But a few hours later, after he's arranged delivery of the parts Kaylee wanted and had a leg-stretching roam around the place, he's surprised to see his first mate in a bar. She's most definitely on her own, looking morosely at a glass of Burdock's finest fermented ... well, call it stuff.

It went badly, then. So much for hoping for the best.

It has been three days since Simon let Wash out of the infirmary, and the pilot has been back, on his orders, every morning. Niska's revenge for the botched train job was to try out a bastard child of medical technology on the kidnapped Wash. He threaded a cybertronic filament in and out of the man's body, and even though Simon removed the device, the patient still bears watching. Dragon thread leaves minute perforations in a victim's tissues. Even when everything seems okay, a daily health check is mandated.

None of which serves to explain what they've been doing during those alleged exams. That will end now, though--the Captain obviously brought them here so Zoe and Wash could reconnect.

Simon's man enough to admit he's disappointed, even if it is for the best. As for Wash, if he has any sense he's probably relieved at the intervention.

River's out with Inara, and the doctor is surprised both at the relief brought by this the temporary relaxation of his responsibilities and at his own lack of fear for his sister. The Companion is a remarkably responsible woman, and River seems to like her. The poor kid can't spend her entire life in the infirmary and her quarters. A little fishing trip might do her good.

It is the first time Simon has truly been without her since they got away from the Academy.

Alone, he prowls the ship. His own quarters seem larger without his distressed sister's energy next door, and the galley is novel in its thoroughgoing absence of the amenities Simon grew up with. It's run-down but clean, like something out of an entertainment vid. He makes himself some hot chocolate--a rare treat, taste of his childhood that he rations carefully--and is as pleasantly shocked as always by the blast of sugar on his tastebuds. Now that Simon is alone, he can admit that he's been in a bad way himself. Not as bad as Wash, obviously, but the past few months have certainly had an effect on his nerves.

He's glad he stayed behind. This is just what he needed, a little space so he could pull himself together.

After the chocolate he rounds the cargo bay, looking at the random boxes of junk as closely as if they were museum exhibits. He walks the corridor where the crew bunks, finding Kaylee's room unlocked. He peers in at her tidy piles of clothes and tools, never crossing the threshold. He finds himself wishing Inara hadn't taken her shuttle and all her possessions out of reach--imagines prowling her things, even though he knows he could never really do it.

He can't even seem to think about the Companion... what she does... without becoming distinctly flustered.

Last he heads up to the cockpit for a look around, whistling as he clangs up the metal steps, loving the way that he's the only source of sound aboard the usually noisy Firefly-class vessel.

And then he realizes he's not. As he enters the cockpit the pilot's chair squeaks loudly, and when it revolves to face him Simon is confronted by the very blue eyes of a certain person he's been trying not to think about.

"What do you mean he wouldn't leave the ship?" Mal demanded.

Zoe, rarely one for talking, likes repeating herself even less. So she shrugs.

"Why didn't you stay aboard with him?"

She drains her cup, waves the waiter over. "I wasn't wanted, sir."

"I understand that he's hurt, stressed, bugging out, whatever... but shouldn't he want you there?"

No answer.

"Is he scared? He thinks he'll get grabbed again if he goes ashore? Or that he'll have that residual bleeding thing Simon mentioned?"

Her gaze darkens briefly at the mention of the doctor. "If Wash was scared, he'd probably make a point of leaving the ship. He's not a coward, sir."

"I don't get it then."

The new drink, a double, arrives and Zoe belts it down. "Neither do I."

"I didn't expect to find you here," Simon says, retreating a pace.

Wash merely looks around the bridge as if to remind Simon that he's the pilot. He has a small tube of something in his hand, is turning it over and over in his fingers.

"No, I know you work here... I mean I thought everyone had left."

"Everyone was supposed to." The tone is a little pointed.

"Oh. Right. I must have missed the, um, memo."

Wash's throat hasn't healed as fast as the rest of him--his voice is still scratchy, deeper than usual. "I'm catching some alone time with my wife. That's the point of this little jaunt."

"Ah. Your wife. Who is..."

"Not currently on board," Wash says.

"I thought you said that was the point?"

"Mal's agenda, my life. I kicked her off."

Don't ask why, Simon tells himself. "Do you want me to leave you alone?"

"Hell no." Setting aside the white tube, Wash lifts himself out of his pilot's chair, and Simon's doctor mind catalogs the fact that he does it easily. Dragon thread is terrible stuff, but the recovery time--the physical, anyway--can be pretty fast. It's why the residual tearing sometimes goes unnoticed. The patient starts moving normally again because they feel like they're all healed and then...

A quick step forward on Wash's part brings them within inches of each other, and Simon loses the vestiges of his clinical detachment. Wash kisses him, as he's done every morning after the physical exam was out of the way, as he did just a few hours ago. It's slow and gentle, a nerve-wracking press of lip on lip, almost romantic. Almost chaste.

Almost being the word that really jumps out at Simon in this context.

Tingling with longing, Simon returns the kiss. That's what he's done every morning now for four days, acting on an instinct that is anything but doctorly. Motives aside, its therapeutic value has been... interesting. Wash is showing up at the infirmary a mess and leaving in a mood that has been almost too untroubled.

Wash lets out a slow breath; that's part of the pattern too. The stress in his face fades, leaving his expression serene even though Simon sees that his eyes are red, his face tracked with now-dry tears. And this time the pair of schoolgirl kisses aren't the end of it. Wash's arms come up, encircling his hips; he pulls. Simon isn't even sure which of them has moved but there's nothing between them now but the thin membranes of their clothes. His erection is pressed against a matching hardness in Wash and the other man is kissing him again, a little harder this time, nudging the doctor's chin downward to unlock his jaw and never once breaking eye contact.

Mal and Zoe make a good team precisely because they know how to communicate. It's not the same thing as talking, really, and that's what most people don't understand. Even though right now she thinks she doesn't want to discuss it, he knows there's something she wants out on the table. So the Captain's choices are to wait until she does want to explore the thing herself--key that into the calendar under 'when hell freezes over'--or to walk them both around to it sideways with a little guesswork.

He orders a drink of his own and ponders Wash, a man he likes but doesn't know all that well. Hard not to see him as an interloper, in many ways--not that he'd ever want Zoe as anything other than what she is, a partner, a right arm. Still. Her marrying changed things for them. They'd been one kind of team before: after, they were a slightly different flavor.

He dredges his mental streambeds, considering. Wash: friendly, good-natured, loves Zoe, loves to fly. Not crazy reckless like many pilots. Recently hurt, which is my fault, Mal tells himself--and there's the first flake of a thought, rolling over in his pan. Because it wasn't just him who saw the sick townspeople, wasn't just him who repented their theft.

"You got him into it," Mal says. "You made an enemy of Niska, he got punished."

"Sir..." Two guys come in and she eyes them automatically, weighing them. He wonders if she's too drunk to take them in a fight. Hopes she doesn't start one.

"Wash would have done the same thing we did."

"That's what he said when I asked." Heavy voice.

"You'd rather he said you'd screwed up?"

"I'd rather he said... anything." She shakes her head, and he senses he's off-track again.

"He's not talking?" He traces a line through the condensation on his glass--among its other amenities, Burdock actually puts ice in your drinks if you ask nicely--and thinks some more. Wash hasn't seemed that close to falling apart. On edge, sure, but there have been big chunks of the day when the pilot has been more or less fine. Is he worse than Mal thought, or is Zoe reacting to something else?

He starts dredging again, but this time he's into more familiar swamps: Zoe, and the sort of things that stick in her craw.

Wash, contrary to all opinions, knows exactly what he's doing. His motivation may be coming from some murky interior place--call it a self-destructive one, even--but he plainly doesn't care. He feels good with this earnest young man in his arms, and he wants to seduce him. He wants to say yes to himself: it's that simple.

So the thing is not to get told no. He takes it one kiss at a time, watching to see if the doctor will back off. Simon thinks he should back off, Wash can sense that. But he's plainly attracted, and if Wash can keep him off-balance he'll never have a chance. So by kiss number four he's sliding his tongue just past those soft lips, watching the dark eyes of the younger man widen as he swallows and kisses back.

Now their tongues are touching, pushing against each other gently and Simon's jaw ratchets open another notch. He lets out a faint noise that is neither purr nor growl and Wash tastes chocolate as gentle hands settle on his shoulders, not resisting, just making themselves at home. It's going to work. He inches forward another half step and the railing keeps the doctor from going back any further. Their bodies push against each other, transmitting heat, sending messages, setting off tingles. Easing his hands up to the back of Simon's neck, he lets his fingers rake deep into the other man's hair. It's softer than he would have guessed.

Pulling the head forward he kisses him fully at last, letting his tongue slide deep, his thumbs pushing into the skull behind Simon's ears. A shudder goes through Simon and Wash's cock burns in response. It's crammed too tightly in the folds of his flightsuit, hard and throbbing against the fabric that constrains it.

But it's a little too soon to strip, so he just presses a little harder against Simon's groin, changing the pressure on himself until it's pleasant again. The other man's erection is hard against his hipbone as they grind back and forth, dancing without music.

Zoe glowering just a minute ago, Mal thinks--why? He reviews the conversation.

Simon. It was when he mentioned Simon. And the good times with Wash have been after he's come from the infirmary, right? From the doctor.

Okay, Mal thinks, that's the vein maybe. How to mine it?

At least he's alive," he starts carefully. A lack of response on his old friend's face that speaks volumes. Too bad they aren't in a poker game right now. "Shepherd told me most people who get... get threaded... thrash themselves to death before anyone can treat them. And getting it out is rutting difficult. If we hadn't taken Simon on, Wash would never have had a chance."

Nothing.

"Follow-up too, he's been careful. Remember that medic we had--Carstairs, during the New Peking Campaign? She'd stitch you up, toss you back into the fray, and screw you if you get an infection."

"Lots of follow-up," Zoe agrees.

Yep, he's found it. Wash is going to Simon for... support or something. And Zoe feels left out?

"Know what I think's going on?" he says, and as the words come out of his mouth he even convinces himself. "I think Wash might be tied up in knots over whether he's gonna keel over from this residual tearing thing. The doc did say it could be insidious, right? And sudden? If Wash takes sick again it's not really over. So he sees Simon in the mornings, hears he's okay, comes up to the flight cabin and does his job. Everything's fine for awhile. Sometime after lunch he's worrying again. And he can't deal with you until he knows he's not going to end up back in the infirmary."

"You think that's what it is, Sir?" Her eyes probe his face and even though she's at least a bottle ahead of him it's like she is dead sober and he's the one who's inebriated.

"Absolutely," he says, all the while wondering if he's feeding her horseshit. "He gave you a scare and he doesn't want to give you two. And sure he's pissed about the medicine thing, he's gotta be. But he can't give you hell about it until he knows one hundred percent for sure that it's not going to be the last fight you ever have. He wouldn't want to leave you with that kind of guilt."

She mulls it over, and then finally nods. "It's kind of the way he sees things."

"Trust me. Once Wash knows in his bones that he's okay, he'll rip your face off."

Naturally, the prospect makes her smile.

"So. You want me to tell Simon to stop babying him?"

"No," she says, clearly relieved. "It's okay. Let him go as long as he wants."

"Just give him some space, Zoe, that's what I say."

"Space," she agrees. Clinking glasses and proceed to work on getting 'faced.

Way back inside him there's an old Simon who's absolutely horrified, a Simon who is probably right now shouting things about abusing patient trust and rules and citations and even inciting family blood grudges. The strange part is that while he's aware that self must be there, he can't even hear its voice.

Wash has caught him off-guard by taking the lead so resolutely. Not that being guarded might have stopped him from getting into this. He's encircled in Wash's arms, his waist pinned against a rail of some kind as the other man kisses his throat, unbuttoning his vest and then the shirt underneath with precise twists of his hands. Button after button slides open, and he feels warm ship air caressing his skin.

He wants to speak, all right, but not so he can offer up the appropriate gentle rejections he learned in school. No, what Simon wants to say are things like 'more please' and 'oh yes' and, Lord help him, 'touch me.'

Two seconds later one of Wash's hands cups the left cheek of his backside, and he does speak up. "Oh God," he pants, and it's the first word either of them has said since their lips met. Wash squeezes again, assured and experienced, a man who's had lots and lots of sex and Simon wonders if he can tell that he's vastly less... educated. He feels like he's a step behind--he is behind if you're scoring by his state of undress--because Wash has his shirt open now, is tracing lines around his nipples and kissing the base of his throat, slipping his fingers under the fabric of his shirt to rub Simon's shoulders.

And every brush of those fingers is sending fire into Simon's brain, making it harder to do anything but press himself against the body that has him trapped against the cockpit rail, and they're kissing each other hard now. Simon lays his hands on Wash's chest for one quick moment just to enjoy the sensation of being squeezed with his arms pinned between their chests.

That, for some reason, makes Wash groan.

Then he's tugging at Wash's flightsuit, softly at first and then harder as the zipper sticks. He gives it a hard jerk and the blond man catches his hand in a grip as firm as steel.

"Let's not play rough," Wash says. Voice gentle, eyes huge, and Simon nods to show he understands as he works the knot free and unzips the suit slowly, so slowly, pressing his hands against Wash's flushed pink chest and getting another full-body squeeze. The embrace pulls his head against Wash's throat so he lets his tongue rest there, playing a figure-eight back and forth over his collarbones. Wash detangles Simon from his shirt as the doctor unzips the flightsuit further, moving slow and easy now as he reaches the bevel of Wash's navel, letting his finger circle that too.

The head of Wash's cock isn't far below the belly; it has risen up to meet him. Simon lets his palm fall onto its head, encountering warm pre-cum, and rubs it in like a salve. Wash's eyes flutter, almost closing, and he hisses as Simon slides the other hand down past the zipper. It's a tight squeeze: the garment is small-waisted. He hasn't opened it quite far enough, and Wash is still pressing against him, making it hard to find space. His breath is coming in little huffs now as Simon wraps his fingers around the shaft of Wash's cock. Still rubbing the tip with the open palm of his right hand, he squeezes with the left, trying to judge the right amount of pressure. Squeeze, release. Harder, release.

Wash's head lolls down to Simon's shoulder. "There, like that. Simon..."

"It's okay," he says irrelevantly. A random, doctorly reassurance.

"It's more than okay," Wash breathes the words into his ear.

Now he squeezes again, this time letting the hand move up and down as he puts the pressure on. He's never done this before--not for someone else, anyway--but the frantic kisses Wash is laying on his neck now leave him in no doubt that he's doing it right. The pilot's hands travel up Simon's back, pressing and squeezing, moving along his spine as Simon concentrates on pulling up, releasing down, pulling up again. When the roving hands reach Simon's face Wash cups his head again, drawing him into a long kiss--nothing chaste going on here now. He doesn't shove or even glance cockward, but Simon slides down immediately, gently pushing aside the layers of clothing that lay around Wash's cock and balls like paper protecting a gift.

Now that he's closer he can see the internal bruising has started to surface: the pink and cream skin here in the groin area is mottled with green and yellow blotches.

He glances up and Wash is watching him, gaze steady, face flushed with arousal and expectation as Simon works up his nerve. He covers for himself by indulging in one last round of squeezing Wash's cock at the base, of pressing his hand against the tip. Then he lets the blood-flushed weight of the organ drop into place against his lower lip.

Wash's hands convulse in his hair as Simon extends his tongue, licking the flesh at the cock's opening. He does it for awhile, enjoying the feel of the fingers jerking, pulling his hair this way and that against his scalp. When this starts to draw frustrated growls from the pilot he licks the whole of the head, delicately at first and then with more assurance, swirling it around in his mouth, letting his teeth graze it painlessly. It's nice--he can feel Wash's pulse on the inside of his lips.

As he gets more comfortable with the unbelievable sensation of actually having a cock inside his mouth, Simon is able to let go with his hands. His fingers forge a trail through the underlayers of Wash's clothes, sliding around to cup the bare skin of his backside. He feels muscles bunching there as the other man nudges forward slightly. The cock glides forward, opening Simon's jaw, centimeter by centimeter.

"Suck me, Simon," Wash says, his breathing labored. "Suck me already, will you?"

Pooching the medicine job has had practical consequences as well as disastrous ones, and Zoe and Mal run out of disposable coin long before either of them is genuinely incapacitated. It takes a lot of money to get drunk when you're good at it--and they are, after all, both experts. Without discussing it they head in the direction of Serenity, dawdling as Burdock's clover-scented air washes over them in brisk gusts.

"Tell me something," Mal says when they're halfway back. "What did you think was going on with him?"

This makes her veer off the path, heading for a pasture full of draft horses. She climbs the fence, balancing on its rails. The horses come by to see if they're carrying treats and she wraps her arms around one, nuzzling its neck.

"Remember Maguire, sir?"

"Ah." He does indeed. Smallish, good-tempered, not meek or effeminate but also not overburdened with big ideas about having a God-given masculine right to be in charge. Another anti-Jayne: pretty much exactly what Zoe looks for in a fellow. Maguire got badly burned in a fight with the Alliance and slipped into a sort of enduring, taciturn bitterness. "That's not Wash. If I know nothing else... "

"How about Toby Gultrain?"

He winces. Gultrain had just gotten shell-shocked one day. He'd gone from being a useful point man to... well, he'd just started acting weird. Kind of like Wash was, Mal had to admit--really calm sometimes, really tense at others. Uncommunicative. And refusing to do things he ought... little things, like wearing body armor on patrol. "I remember Gultrain. But who knows how that would have turned out if he'd lived a little longer?"

She gives him one of those flat unreadable looks and gets on the horse bareback, crooning into its ear, guiding it with her leg muscles and low murmurs. Under her direction it turns left, then right, walking an infinity sign while the other horses get out of the way. Then she canters around the pasture, wobbling but never really in danger of losing her seat, and Mal tries to think past his own alcohol intake to put this little piece of her into some kind of useful framework.

It's that she likes to have the lines of command nice and clear, Mal thinks. He knows her so well already, digging for more insight always seems like an invasion of privacy. But here it is, so he might as well tuck it away for future reference. Things he's never really considered deeply since the wedding suddenly add up for him: this isn't the first time the give and take of marriage has confounded his friend.

The horse tries out a little rebellion, dancing sideways. Zoe just squeezes harder, driving it in another lap around the pasture. It's like a stubborn soldier--an obstacle she can get through easily. It's when the objectives are undefined and the path ahead is hard to see that Zoe gets troubled.

Good thing I was able to figure out what was going on with Wash before she turned it into a big mysterious issue, Mal thinks, as she slides off the horse in front of him and then looks confused about how to get over the fence again.

The first thing that Simon learns about sucking cock is that no matter how hard he works at it, no matter how hard he's concentrating on every sensation, even no matter how exotic and erotic and new the experience is and how utterly aroused it is making him--there's still a tiny piece of his mind left over for other thoughts.

There shouldn't be. Wash's cock is rubbing the back of his throat, pulsing slowly to the pace of Simon's suction: long, slow pulls from the diaphragm. That should be more than enough to hold all his attention, but even if it wasn't, Wash's fingers are stroking Simon's hair. His head is canted down, and every time Simon looks up they make eye contact. The blue eyes are electrical, intense, deeply emotional and Simon finds himself sucking harder in the hope of making them close. He'd like a look at Wash's face, one that doesn't have the man's whole soul in it.

Why this and why now and why me, of all people? The tiny troublemaking part of his brain persists in asking: what precisely is driving Wash away from his wife and into me?

And why am I participating--that's really the question, isn't it?

And it's not one Simon wants to answer, not here with his lips tickling against Wash's golden pubic hair and his fingers digging into the flesh of Wash's ass, and what did it matter anyway if he was breaking Medical College rules or being a party to adultery. He was stuck out here on the fringe and could never go back. He had nothing left, nothing at all and his sister wasn't even right, he didn't get to have the person she used to be back in his life...

Very surprised at himself, he glances up, and the eyes are there. Needing him. He wonders if his gaze looks the same.

The guy's married and traumatized and I'm taking advantage of him...

Yeah, right. The cock bumps hard against his throat, almost making him gag. He'd always thought taking advantage would feel more assertive.

Tired of thinking, Simon sucks harder, pulling Wash's ass to move the cock deeper into his throat. Wash's eyelids finally flutter again, and this time his gaze rolls upward. The hands in his hair lose control, twitching in a way that Simon finds hopelessly erotic.

He's getting the hang of this now. Take a breath, relax the throat, pull. The smell and taste and heat of Wash--the sense of being filled with him--extends beyond his straining mouth and compressed tongue. Wash is the blood pounding in Simon's own straining cock, the air squeezing in and out past his obstructed windpipe, the drum of pulse in his ears, the faintly perspiring skin under his hands.

Pull, release--Wash is close to orgasm now--pull again. The pilot's head rolls back even further, his hips jittering minutely. Simmering with anticipation, Simon readies himself for another new experience--trying to swallow.

And that's when Wash tells him to stop.

"Stop." Softly the first time and Simon keeps sucking, like he hasn't heard. "I said--" and instead of repeating he just fists his hands in Simon's hair, pulling back steady and firm like the doctor's a ship with a bad damping field.

Simon's eyes widen as his cock clears the mouth and then bounces against Wash's gut. It is slick with saliva. He chases it, straining against the pulled hair to give it one last hard kiss before looking up in confusion. He gropes for the railing and raises himself. "Are you all right? Did I hurt--"

"I'm not hurt." Wash interrupts him with a long kiss, reaching down to rub the front of Simon's pants, to catch hold of the other man's erection through the fabric and to squeeze it hard. He's still on the edge of coming, still trying to reel himself back in. "And you are... great. You've got a real gift for sucking cock, Simon."

It's meant to be funny, and the doctor does smile faintly. "But--?"

"But I think I ought to fuck you."

Simon's head bounces back a little. His jaw drops and his eyes dilate.

"Can I fuck you, Simon?"

"Now?"

"This very second."

A soundless spasm of laughter. "Perhaps we should retire to some other part of the ship."

Which is a yes, as far as Wash can tell. He reaches for Simon's pants only to find that the guy not only covers himself in layers but is wearing a belt too.

"My quarters, or your... no, of course not your quarters..."

"I like it here," Wash says. The buckle fights him--he has to look down at it, has to use both hands to get it open. "It's a good place. I make good things happen here."

"The infirmary door can be closed. Locked, even."

Aha. He pulls the belt aside and yanks the pants open, sending a button ricocheting off the portals as he takes the slick length of Simon in his hand. "When you're going to fuck me, Simon, we can do it on your turf."

And then he's the one doing the squeezing, and the doctor runs out of arguments.

They're about a hundred feet from the ship when Mal happens to glance up at the cockpit and get an eyeful of something he really wishes he hadn't. Something that hits a new high mark for disturbing and reminds him why he doesn't believe in God.

He stops in his tracks, bends over coughing so Zoe doesn't catch his face and when he trusts himself to straighten up she is turned away from the ship. His second in command is looking at him, ever so slightly bleary. She hasn't seen her naked husband cavorting with Simon in the cockpit.

"Are you all right?"

"You know, I think we should go back to the bar," he says.

"We're out of money."

"We could wash dishes."

"They have a machine, sir."

"I think I left something there."

"What?"

"Oh, you know... a thing." He regrets that the minute he says it.

"Did I ask if you were all right?"

He can't say no, can he? She'll want to fetch him the doctor. Mal represses a tipsy giggle and tries very hard to think.

She crosses her arms. "If you want to go, go. I'll just--"

"No, no, no. I definitely think you should go with me. Hey, maybe you forgot something back there."

"Captain, it's been a long week and I'm tired. I just want to grab some protein, check on my husband..." She waves, dismissing him, and takes another couple steps toward the ship.

"I was just thinking about Gultrain," he tries, a desperate lie he doesn't know he's going to attempt until it's out there like a sick dog. "You know, how he just sort of one day stopped believing in the fight."

She stops. Sighs. Looks at him again, turning her back on the ship's bridge. "Lots of people didn't believe. Everyone's reason for fighting was different."

"Yeah, but that kind of person still fought, that's my point. Gultrain was a true believer... and then it was like he just lost something one day, and without it he couldn't... couldn't keep on."

"Going through the motions." A long sigh, and this isn't good. He's drawing her attention back to the problem of Wash.

And what a problem that's turning out to be, huh? He fights back a guilty expression, keeping his eyes firmly away from his boat as he casts around for a way to keep the conversation going. "I ever tell you how he died?"

"I don't care how he died, sir, he got me shot. I just want--"

"It was my fault, you know," he says, and that does it. Duty to her C.O. pulls her back into his orbit and she focuses on Mal. A dirty trick, but she deserves it. She's a dirty fighter herself.

Of course Mal's got some fast talking to do now, because he's never given Gultrain a second thought at all.

Wash slides Simon out of his clothes quickly, pulling the doctor close and enjoying the feel of having the other man's naked flesh against him finally, stripped from neck to knees. They kiss like that, wrapped together behind the pilots' seats and he thinks that he could do this forever.

His cock isn't as patient, not by half. It's throbbing, transmitting pangs of lust and need so strong they're making his fingers twitch. With one last kiss, Wash reaches for a tube of cream he's been contemplating for the past couple of days. It's something Inara gave Kaylee for her hands, something the mechanic left it on his console when she was working. It smells of cinnamon and butter, and the hand-written label says all the ingredients are natural. Not that this has figured into his calculations.

He squirts a liberal dollop onto Simon's hands, holding the other man's gaze. After a second, Simon's hands drop to his cock, spreading the cream over Wash's skin. Something in the ointment makes his skin tingle, ever so slightly. The feel of Simon's sensitive hands gliding on and over him, like he's some kind of musical instrument, makes every muscle in his crotch jump at once.

"So... I guess... I turn around?" Simon considers the shape of the cabin, like it's a geometry problem. They both decide on the pilot's chair at the same time. Simon tests his weight against its hard back; Wash bends to scoop up the shirt and vest, making some improvised padding. Then the sight of Simon's ass registers, and it's the only thing he can think about.

He traces it with his hands, eliciting a shiver. The shivers are part of what's sexy, he thinks. Being with someone who trembles.

"Don't stop now," Simon whispers, eyes squeezed shut. Wash doesn't wait for another invitation. He takes the buttery length of himself in hand, traces down the crack of Simon's ass, searching. The doctor is pressing himself backward and as the two sensitive areas of their respective bodies come together there's a small mental explosion: they groan in synch. Wash pushes himself forward, as gently as he can and he feels Simon stretching around him. Not entirely different from his mouth opening up to Wash's cock, but so much tighter, so much more pressure on him everywhere and his muscles jump again and the doctor hisses.

"Okay?" he asks.

The doctor whimpers, rocking his body slightly, and Wash feels another of the knots inside himself relax a notch. "More," Simon whispers.

Now Wash can't help smiling. He rocks with Simon, finds a cadence that pushes his cock in a little further with each pulse of the other man's hips--still feels like he's running the show but not so much he's being a control nut or anything, and that's about the last of the stupid irrelevant thoughts for one day because now he's halfway in and each controlled tiny thrust is bringing him deeper by centimeters, and Simon is under him breathing raggedly and mouthing words: yes, good, very good, more, niiice. And his name too, Wash, Wash, oh Wash, oh God.

And now he's there, all the way inside and sliding freely, slipping deep into Simon and then almost all the way out, pushing in harder with each thrust until he senses it's as much as Simon can take, catching the occasional encouraging word and feeling himself getting closer, closer. He fights to hold on, but this time Simon doesn't let him quit. He bucks underneath him, tightening every muscle around Wash's cock, and tugs, tugs, humping backwards so his ass is rubbing Wash's lower belly with every move and Wash can't hold anything back. He comes: waves of pleasure roll through him with such ferocity that he loses his grip on the pilot's chair and has to grab for the rail. Hot jizz blasts out of him, then backs up in the confined spaces of Simon's body. As he continues to push--in, out, in, out--the whole of Simon becomes wet and hot and Wash-slicked.

Simon is still squeezing and pulling beneath him, moaning desperately. Wash draws a hand down around his hip, reaching for Simon's cock but no sooner has he got his hand over the thing than Simon is coming too, spattering wetness over them both, over the back of the pilot's chair and the doctor's chin and Wash's hand and the wrinkled button-down vest draped over the rough edge of the seat and who knows what else.

With a soft cry, Simon collapses forward onto his forearms, gasping for breath, going so still Wash would be scared if he wasn't smiling. He looks absolutely boneless, but Wash tries to pull out and he squawks--that's the only word for it--an inarticulate protest.

"Sorry." He moves more carefully, slides himself out, puts a kiss on the back of Simon's neck. Jizz, stained with cinnamon and a little blood, seep down the doctor's leg. Another kiss, on the mouth this time, and then because he isn't sure what else to do, Wash tucks himself back into the flightsuit. Watching Simon carefully, he zips up.

He's at peace again. Why he can't say, and probably it won't last nearly long enough. But the knots within have released him again.

That's when he spots Mal and Zoe, engaged in an intense discussion not five feet away from the ship.

"The thing is, I told him to get over it. I practically gave him an ultimatum." Mal is having no luck making a short story long.

"You already said that," Zoe says. She's impatient, eager to go inside. Not angry though--and if she'd seen what he had, she'd already be inside destroying the place. At least here under Serenity the sightlines are worse. There's almost no danger of her seeing into the flight cabin. But she's right near the entrance. If she goes inside, if she hears something...

"But if I'd given the guy a little more time..."

"Sir, I gave Gultrain an ultimatum too. He was messing up. He got me shot. We were going to die if he didn't get it together."

"Yeah, but the thing is..."

"Captain." Her eyes narrow suddenly. "Malcolm. Is something bothering you?"

"Yes. As I'm trying to explain..."

"Something we haven't already covered, dammit?"

"Well..." He tries to look troubled, finds it easy. "Yes."

"Would you just tell me what it is? I'm tired, we've been drinking, and--"

"Okay, okay." He takes as long as he can get away with before answering. "It's like this. Gultrain--"

Zoe shrieks in frustration and pounds the hull of the ship.

"What is that?" Simon asks as the hull bongs and Wash pulls him down to the floor, out of sight.

"Trouble twins are back."

"Who?" He swallows, because he doesn't really need to ask.

"Zoe and Mal." The pilot's voice is completely calm. "Put your clothes on."

"They're soiled."

"You only have to make it down the corridor in 'em. Unless you want to streak."

All the residual pleasure washes out of Simon's body as he makes a grab for his pants. Why hadn't he thought before about how easily Zoe could disembowel him? "What'll we do?"

Wash glances around the spattered cockpit. "I'll clean up here. You go shower. It'll be okay."

"Aren't you worried?"

Wash, seeming to consider this, nods. "Slightly. You know, you don't have to button every button."

"If they see me looking like this..."

"You don't have time to iron the shirt, Simon. If they see you like this, we're busted." Wash picks him up then, batting his hands away from his fasteners and giving him one long kiss. "Know why?"

"I look like someone just..." Struggling with the obscenity, ridiculous. "Someone just fucked me?"

"And I'm the only fucker on board at the moment. So relax. It'll be okay."

"All right." Another kiss, and Simon clangs down the stairs. "Wash?"

"Uh huh?" Dreamy voiced.

"What are we doing?"

"I have a theory."

"Yes?"

"It's like this. We're two kinda screwed up guys doing something really stupid. It can't last, and if we're not careful, everyone gets hurt and we lose stuff we care about."

"Probably even if we are careful." His heart falls. "That's what I think too."

"But it's fun," Wash says, still in that eerily unconcerned voice. "We're in the fun stage."

"Right." He flushes. "Very entertaining. And maybe we can prolong it if we don't--"

"Get caught right now, yeah. You better go."

He takes another step and then finds himself turning again. The blue eyes, as always, are waiting for him. "Wash?"

"Yes?"

"I did hear that at some point I might get to fuck you. Right?"

A warm, easy grin is his only reply. Simon beetles down the passageway, belt buckle flapping, sprinting for the medical washup.

Alone at last. Humming, Wash drags out an old rag--another thing Kaylee forgot to take with her--and starts sopping up the splashed and drying fluids on the floor, the guardrails, on the back of the pilot's chair.

Listening intently, he hears it the moment the infirmary door bangs shut and the bolts clunk home. The pipe system clunks as hot water is engaged. A second later, the discordant voices of the captain and the first mate echo distantly through the cargo bay. Drunk and arguing about the war, from the sounds of it. The two of them will never tire of it, will they? Go out, have their fun, make their messes... that's what they do. Trouble twins.

Moving fluidly, feeling centered and pleasantly languid, Wash takes one last look around the control room. When he decides he's cleaned up his own mess adequately, he shoves the rag deep into his flightsuit pocket.

"See you in the morning," he murmurs. Then he slides into the depths of the ship, heading for his cabin and a shower of his own.

--end--