18. We Promise Not to Stop for Beers With the Fellahs

"You’re scratching,” Inara said.

“What? Oh,” Wash hadn’t realized that he’d been scratching his forearm again. “Well, it itches.”

“Scratching won’t make it better,” Inara said. “Not to mention, it’s crude.”

“Sorry,” Wash said, and put both hands on the steering wheel.

They rode on through the streets of the city in their rented convertible, out toward the scrapyard where Wash had originally fallen afoul of the Alliance. At the edge of the city, Wash opened up the little roadster, startling a squeal from Inara and kicking up a cloud of dust.

One hand braced against the dashboard, hair whipping around her face, Inara said loudly “This isn’t the way to avoid contact with law enforcement!”

Wash just grinned at her, and fully unleashed the sporty groundcar.

They raced over the terrain with the wind in their hair, and Inara gave in to the thrill of it and laughed. Wash pulled the roadster into a curve without slowing, both hands tight on the wheel, and Inara gripped the dashboard until her knuckles turned white and she was worried, somewhere in her hindbrain, that Wash was going to get them both killed over a bit of boyish foolishness.

**

Aboard Polyphemus, one of Coles’s aides located him in the officer’s mess, eating sushi. “Sir. Washburne’s ident chip tripped several DomSec monitors this morning.”

Coles waited for the burn of the wasabi to pass, and wiped his mouth. “Good,” he said. “Let’s go.”

**

Inara was actually disappointed when they arrived at the gate of the scrapyard – although she had never been there before, she was fairly certain Wash had not arrived by the most direct route.

“I think you’re enjoying this ‘wealthy client’ thing more than most of my actual wealthy clients,” she told him, laughing, as he brought the roadster smoothly to a stop just outside the scrapyard gate.

“Sometimes it seems even more like flying when you can feel the wind in your hair,” he replied. He hadn’t