(no subject)

[flybywash]

[From here.]

They break atmo ten minutes later, flames licking at Serenity's nose before they drop into the cool, bright silence of the black. Wash lets go of the controls and drinks it in, letting out a slow breath, leaning back in his chair --

Wait.

Wash frowns. Wiggles the chair around.

It doesn't feel right.

He looks out the windscreen, and is met with an uncertain, unwelcome wariness that he can't place -- the briefest flash of red that he blinks back with a minute shiver.

After several minutes, he gets up, switches the controls over, and crosses to the co-pilot's chair, tumbling into the well-worn fabric with an audible sigh.

There. He leans his head back. That's better.

Some time later, he checks their band trajectory and engages a wave to Bentley Aeronautics.

Comments

[aj_crawley]

Upon connection, a soft, monotonous beep precedes a pleasant (if mechanised) female voice informing Wash that he is on hold; ID 'Bentley. Aeronautics.' is receiving another wave right now, but will be with him directly.

[flybywash]

This is followed by quiet, equally monotonous music: something that was popular on the broadwaves fifty years ago, overplayed to annoyance, then crushed down into a handy package of bland and run through a blender of more bland. The screen displays pockets of soft, blurred blobs that rotate through a full spectrum of blue.

Wash grumbles, scratches an ear and keeps his eyes on the stars.

[aj_crawley]

Eventually, however, a bar appears on the screen; its three segments light up, one after the other - bleep, bleep, bleep - before Crowley's face flickers into view on the screen, the trappings of his office visible behind him.

"...Well, well, well. Wèi, Wash."

[flybywash]

Wash grins. Really grins, like he hasn't in a while.

"Hey, Uncle Andy," he says cheerfully, kicking one foot onto the edge of the console as he laces his fingers together over his chest. "How's it going?"

[aj_crawley]

"...Busily," he decides after a moment, "but not badly."

He leans back momentarily, half-rising from his chair as he cranes to check something behind the screen, and then sits back down again, pushing his sunglasses up on his head.

"You? How's glorious freedom treating you?"

[flybywash]

"The all of forty-five minutes I've had it?" he asks, his smile going a bit crooked. "Hell of a lot better than the last week. I like having a view again."

As he speaks, his focus drifts to the windscreen and back.

[aj_crawley]

"Well, believe me when I say," he says simply, "that I know exactly what you mean."

[flybywash]

"You'd think they'd at least put some kind of window in there. Tiny ones. Windowlettes, even."

A breath, and a quick shake of his head as if to rouse himself.

"So. Anyway. How busy's busy? I miss anything good?"

[aj_crawley]

"Nothing massively life-changing," he says with a shrug. "Yet, anyway. But business is booming, as ever, and a certain electoral candidate's popularity is starting to climb pretty fast."

[flybywash]

That gets a cocked eyebrow.

"Give me a second." Wash holds up one finger, assuming a thoughtful look. "Wait...wait....

"Nope," he concludes, and immediately drops his hand. "Not surprised."

It's Crowley. Lack of surprise when things start working out in certain individuals' favors has sort of become a standard thing.

[aj_crawley]

"His platform is solid, and his integrity and philosophy appeals to a wide range of population sectors, without the need for spin. I fully respect his decision not to engage in manipulative tactics."






Snort.

[flybywash]

"And I'd never, ever think otherwise," he replies instantly, keeping a straight face. "Come on, what kind of man do you take me for? He's a nice guy. Good candidate. I'd vote for him."

Straight face held for three point six seconds after he finishes saying that.

It might be a new record.

[aj_crawley]

He tuts disapprovingly.

Sort of.

"Ehehehaaanyway. I hear the way the criminal underbelly passes time in the clink is asking each other what's the first thing they'll do when they get out. You have any plans?"

[flybywash]

"Plan number one involved marching into the infirmary and ripping out anything that's keeping Niska alive," he says, far too calmly, "but that didn't work. So, I'm sticking with plan number two of hanging around here for a while, getting sleep in a real bed, and enjoying my privelige as second-in-command until Mal's out, too. It's going to be a weekend packed with action, lemme tell you."

[aj_crawley]

"I fully support this plan," he says, nodding. "Lounging around, using your newfound privacy to... catch up on some reading..."

[flybywash]

Wash snaps his fingers, as if just remembering.

"Yeah, that reminds me," he says. "I've got a question for you."

[aj_crawley]

Eyebrow?

[flybywash]

Wash nods, steeples his fingers and considers the windscreen again. His lips twitch.

And then he affects an earnest, drunken slur and says, complete with Persephone accent and expansive hand gestures:

"D'you know what eternity is? I mean, d'you know what eternity is? There's this big mountain, see, a mile high, at the end of the universe, and once every thousand years there's this little bird -- "

[aj_crawley]

" - FUCK OFF," Crowley manages to choke out, before creasing up with laughter.

[flybywash]

" -- this bloody ancient -- "

Wash dissolves into a laughing fit.

"How come you never said anything? Bernard shows up with this big stack of books and right on top is this little beat-up white thing and I get to the first page -- "

[aj_crawley]

"I don't even think there're any copies still around," he says through his sniggers. "'Less Aziraphael has one, maybe. I mean, what do I even say? 'Hey, here, read about the thrilling tale of me helping to save the 'verse through incompetence'?"

[flybywash]

"It is thrilling! If I had a book about me like that I'd be forcing it on everyone."

Seriously. Jayne gets a town. His pseudo-uncle gets a book. Wash is feeling a little left out here.

"Was Aziraphael really that pudgy? I don't remember pudgy."

[aj_crawley]

"He used to - oh, fuck."

He's pinching the bridge of his nose, now, and trying not to start laughing uncontrollably again.

"He used to wear these, these huge jumpers," Crowley illustrates by extending his arms around him, "and then jackets over, and I told him, I said it wouldn't work in his favour, but noooo... Also, the hands. See the hands."

[flybywash]

Which presents the image of the Prior, complete with ponytail and collar, waddling around under six layers of sweaters. 'Bless you, my child.'

Wash sinks lower in his chair as he claps a hand to his forehead and howls.

[aj_crawley]

"He was so. pissed. off. I'm not even kidding, insinuate something next time you see him having dessert and watch him get all prissy. Comedy gold."

It is, Crowley feels, one of those timeless classics - but then, Crowley's one of the ones that can get away with it, 99.99% of the time.

Plus, he likes Aziraphael's hands.

[flybywash]

"So wait, wait," he takes his hand away, still laughing, practically teary-eyed with it, "how did you even know these Gaiman and Pratchett guys?"

[aj_crawley]

"It began," he intones (as best he can, still shaking with laughter as he is), "as all such epic tales do. We met them down the pub."

[flybywash]

"Please don't tell me you had a repeat of the bird at the end of the 'verse conversation. Or nest-making gorillas."

[aj_crawley]

"Not exactly," he temporises, "though I'm pretty sure they did think we were batshit, until Aziraphael turned Neil's pint into water. And then back into a better pint."

[flybywash]

"And then came the great retelling of the narrowly-averted apocalypse and God I wish I could've seen that."

He manages to, mostly, get himself back under control, wiping his eyes.

[aj_crawley]

"I'm still not even sure exactly why we did it," he says, shaking his head. "Except that - I mean, these people almost were all wiped out, and they'd never know, and... just, you know when something so huge happens, and you just need to tell anyone, 'cos you can barely even believe it happened yourself?"

[flybywash]

"Yes," he agrees fervently. "Exactly. Hell, I had a lot of conversations right after Jethro that were, just, 'Hey, guess what? I came back. From the dead.'"

Spooky hands ensue. They're a bit like jazz hands, but with more finger-wiggling and wider eyes.

"Fēng kuáng de."

[aj_crawley]

"So, yeah, that's my no longer strictly extant claim to fame. Bluffing down the end of the world with a tyre iron. First time for everything."

But not the last.

[flybywash]

"Is a tyre iron one of those long, skinny, with a...."

He sketches out the shape with his hands, two clawed fingers serving as the curved end.

Back in August, he'd wondered, for a brief stretch, how one of those had ended up on the floor of Serenity's cargo bay.

[aj_crawley]

"Yeah, it's - in fact - "

A faintly conspiratorial gleam in his eyes, he leans back to check the door again (unnecessary, but old paranoia dies hard) before ducking below the line of sight of the screen. There's a rich wooden sound; a drawer sliding open.

When Crowley sits back up, he's holding, palms upturned proudly, a long, skinny length of black metal. With a curved end.

[flybywash]

And Wash widens his eyes with a small gasp of mock-reverence.

"The Unholy Tyre Iron of Andronicus," he whispers dramatically. With a small, teasing scoff, "And you just leave it sitting around in your desk drawer. For shame. There's museums that'd pay millions for a relic like that."

[aj_crawley]

"Well," he says serenely, picking an invisible piece of fluff off the viciously curved teeth, "never know when it might come in handy."

[flybywash]

"Shi a. Absolutely. I'm liable to steal one and keep it up here in the lockers myself."

But it's knowing, beneath the humor.

Because that is one damn familiar tyre iron he's holding.

[aj_crawley]

Oh, if Wash only knew.

"Not that it works for everyone, mind," he continues, hefting its weight idly in his hand. "But I've often found that pokers will do almost as well. Or, in a pinch, a beer-bottle or rolled-up newspaper."

[flybywash]

"Rolled-up newspaper?"

Wash leans forward, expectant.

There has got to be a story behind this.

[aj_crawley]

He snickers softly down at the desk, as though at some old memory. It's surprising, how easy things get to laugh at.

"You, uh... ever see a great sodding lion in the bar?"

[flybywash]

A nod. "Yeah, once, sort of, except it wasn't...." Trying to jar his memory, Wash makes a small circling gesture with one hand. "She said she was...hell, what was it, started with an H -- I don't remember," he concludes, letting his hand fall. "It was a while ago. Anyway, lion lookalike, not really a lion."

[aj_crawley]

Blink.

Carefully:

"She?"

[flybywash]

"She," he confirms. "Walked on her back legs, flew some kind of...."

He trails off.

"This is where you're gonna tell me there's another, completely different lion wandering around in the bar, aren't you."

[aj_crawley]

"...Yes."


He facepalms.


"The lion I'm talking about was Jesus."


Fucking Milliways.

[flybywash]

Oh, wait, you were expecting Wash to say something after that lengthly pause?

Maybe another one will work.







Nope. Still speechless.

[aj_crawley]

"...Yeah."



He mimes, in miniature, whapping somebody across the nose with a rolled-up newspaper.



Yeah.

[flybywash]

Wash opens his mouth.





"There are supposed to be words coming out," he says in a tiny, plaintive voice when nothing else happens right away. "Why aren't there words?"

And then he promptly buries his face in his arms as another round of hysterical laughter starts anew.