flybywash | (no subject)

(no subject)

[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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"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?"

"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."

"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.

"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.

"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.

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."

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

"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.

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."

"Rolled-up newspaper?"

Wash leans forward, expectant.

There has got to be a story behind this.

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?"

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."

Blink.

Carefully:

"She?"

"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."

"...Yes."

He facepalms.

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

Fucking Milliways.

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

Maybe another one will work.

Nope. Still speechless.

"...Yeah."

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

Yeah.

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only