Wash glances away as the needle sinks into his arm, looking instead at the unconscious Mal. The Captain looks pale and feverish, drying blood still crusted on his face. “Is he going to be okay?” he asks Simon quietly.

The doctor thinks for a moment, then nods cautiously. “He's lost a lot of blood, but he's stable enough for now. The transfusion should help.”

“Sometimes I think he only employs me as a walking blood-bank for when he gets in the way of a bullet,” Wash says, eyes now drifting to the swelling blood pack.

“Yes, this is the... second time?”

“Since you've been here,” Wash clarifies, “Fifth in total.”

“I'm... sure he'd do the same for you,” Simon offers, obviously not looking for conversation.

Wash sighs. It's not that he's scared of needles, but he prefers someone to talk to when there's one stuck in his arm for several minutes, to take his mind off things.

As if on cue, Zoe appears. For a moment she only has anxious eyes for her Captain, but then she meets her husband's gaze and her expression softens. She sits beside Wash on the other bed, reassuring hand on his shoulder. She knows his dislike of needles and casts around for a topic of conversation to distract him with.

“We still headed for Beaumonde?” she asks, even though she already knows the answer.

“Yep,” her husband replies, “Should hit atmo in about eighteen hours,” He hesitates for a moment. “Doesn't seem much point hitting a delivery we've got no cargo for,” he adds.

Zoe nods. “But there'll be other jobs there, with luck.”

Jobs for a crew known for not hitting their cargo?

The words remain unspoken, but Wash's expression says them as clearly as his mouth could. The blood-pack is bulging now, and Simon deftly removes the needle from Wash's arm.

“I'll get on the cortex,” the pilot states, standing carefully lest he should go light-headed, “See what I can find.” He touches a gentle thumb to Zoe's cheek, “You need sleep too,” he adds softly, “Don't stay up all night watching him dream, he won't thank you f