Mal climbed, very carefully, down the ladder, Freya waiting at the bottom.

“I’m shiny,” he said, not wanting her to know that the bullet wound Simon had patched up hurt in any way.

She obviously wasn’t convinced. “You’re an idiot.”

“I’m captain.”

“So that precludes you from being an idiot?”

“Yes.”

“No.” She stood in the centre of their bunk and watched as he tried to undo the buttons on his shirt. “Here, let me,” she said finally, stepping closer.

“I can manage,” he insisted.

“Of course you can. You’re captain.” She looked into his blue eyes. “I’m just offering to help.”

“Oh, well, if it’s just that …” He stood still as she undid his shirt, pushing his suspenders carefully from his shoulders.

“You should have stayed in the infirmary, like Simon wanted.”

“I’ve been shot before.”

“I’ve noticed. And that’s no excuse.”

“Frey, I want to be in my own bed. What’s so wrong about that?”

“Nothing,” Freya conceded, slipping the shirt off his back and tossing it onto the chair. “As long as you don’t plan on doing anything stupid.” She eyed the bandage around his waist, the red of the bloodstain already seeping through a little.

“I wasn’t planning on getting shot in the first place.”

“Mmn.”

“Mmn? What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, watching her as she undid the fly of his pants.

“Your plans don’t always exactly go smooth.”

“Are you trying to tell me something?”

“I thought I’d made myself perfectly clear.”

A noise from the nursery had Freya turning from her husband and going to check on their son, giving Mal the opportunity to sit down carefully, reaching down to tug off his boots. Instead he stopped and groaned.

“Just dreaming,” his wife said, stepping back into their room and sliding the door closed.

“Good dreams, I hope.”

“Probably about playing with Bethie.”

“Sounds good.”

Freya reached down and grabbed his ankle, lifting his leg to pull off his boot. His sock came next, which she threw into the corner, something of a disgusted