Thump. Thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump-thump. Thump.

Mal listened to the broken rhythm as he walked along the corridor, doing up his shirt but leaving his suspenders hanging. Zoe and Hank’s hatch was closed, which wasn’t surprising, given the ship time. Everyone had been in bed for more than three hours, as he had until ten minutes since, when he’d woken and found himself on his own. He’d waited, but Freya hadn’t come back, so he got up, pushing his feet into cold boots and tugging on the clothing that had been abandoned on the chair.

He yawned and scratched his head, leaning in the doorway to the kitchen, but the galley was dark, unoccupied, and beyond he could see the red-lit engine room was empty too. As it should be, since Kaylee and Simon were probably wrapped up together down in the lower crew quarters. He grimaced as his mind skittered away from the possibility of something else they might be doing.

Still, that didn’t explain the noise. Turning away, he headed for the cargo bay.

Ah.

Some time back, when they were in the middle of nowhere without the sniff of a job or anyplace to go, Jayne had hung a makeshift punching bag from under one of the catwalks, taking out some of his frustrations on the old leather rather than shooting up the ship, which Mal for one had been glad about. Things had improved, and now there was coin chinking in their pockets, but Jayne had left the bag hanging, and most of the crew did occasional sessions on it. Admittedly, River made it look like she was performing some sort of lethal dance with it, while Hank only did enough to keep from getting soft around the middle again, but the sound of fists pounding wasn’t unknown.

Except in the middle of the night.

He watched Freya, her shoulders hunched slightly, hands wrapped in tape, as she threw punch after punch, left hook, right hook, then a short sequence that would have had an opponent first winded, then aching, and finally down on the ground, holding his belly in outright pain.

Mal smiled. He ha