For the most part, Mal kept to himself, trying even subconsciously to avoid his exposure to the rest of his crew.  Still, he had to eat eventually, and it was late and the ship quiet, so he expected not to encounter anyone on his trip to the galley.

Finding the entire crew there relaxing and drinking some of Kaylee's horrible wine there instead did nothing to assuage his annoyance.  "I swear I must have the laziest gorram crew in the 'verse."  His eyes flickered between each of them, finally resting on Kaylee.  "You figure out what made that sound yet?"

Kaylee looked up, her face guilty.  She'd actually been enjoying herself for the first time in a week, until he came in.  "I...lubed up all the parts I could think of.  One of the pistons was runnin' a little dry, so it mighta been that.  Hard to tell, 'less I can find where the sound is coming from.”  She nudged one of the chairs towards him hopefully with her foot, wishing he would sit down, stop being the captain, and be Mal, just for a little while.

Mal glanced at the chair darkly, but for the moment said nothing. Instead his eyes drifted over the faces of his crew.  Zoe and Wash were looking expectantly at him, as though hoping he'd join.  Simon was staring down at his cup, seeming guilty for enjoying himself.  Jayne appeared to not have even noticed Mal's arrival, and River was knitting, or perhaps just holding the sweater in her lap.  They had been laughing and talking before he had arrived, and now they were sitting sullenly.  If he sat down, they wouldn't start smiling and laughing again, and he knew it.

He wasn't supposed to join in their fun, not right now.  "What I heard wasn't no lack of oil, Kaylee.  You'd better go check again, see if you can't figure out what came loose." He looked to Jayne.  "We're landing pretty soon.  You'd better double check to see that your precious cargo is properly secured." His eyes alighted on Wash, but before he could say anything, Wash put up a hand.

"I'll check to make sure we're still on course."  Wash managed a smile and nodded to Zoe. "C'mon, babe, you can finish your story in the cockpit."

"Come on, River," Simon said, not wanting to wait to be singled out for his idleness for the second time in as many days.  "Time to get you to bed."

River stood docilely enough, but glanced back over her shoulder anxiously.  "He's cold," she insisted, hands twisting in the jumbled knit.

Mal let them go, watching them fade into the depths of the ship out of the corners of his eyes.  Soon he was left with only Kaylee, who seemed to have been waiting for him to say something.  Lifting his eyes, he focused them on her, his gaze unyielding.  "Thought I told you to find that problem."

"Yes, sir," she said unhappily, standing up.  She nudged the jug of wine towards him.  "We was savin' you some," she said, then went to see if she couldn't wriggle into the duct leading into the cargo bay.  Could be the problem was there, if there really was one.

Several long moments passed while Mal stared down at the jug of wine.  It housed everything he couldn't be inside it. There was no room for carefree or happy, nor for the luxury of relaxation.  Resenting that he couldn't be what the rest of the crew wanted him to be, and so easily were themselves, he picked the jug up and hurled it across the room. 

The clay pot smashed into shards, spraying bright red wine all over.

In the cockpit, Zoe's head jerked up at the sound of something smashing.  "Hell."  She unseated herself from her husband's knee.  "Reckon I better go make sure we still have a kitchen in the morning."  She looked tired—in truth, she'd had enough of placating and calming.

Wash hadn't heard the sound, but it didn't take him long to figure out what had happened. "Hey," he said, rising.  Putting a hand on her arm, he stilled her.  "Let me try?" Off her skeptical expression, he gave a smile.  "I promise I'll behave."

She relaxed a little.  "Just don't do anything so I have to wake up the doc, all right?"

"Well, that depends on Mal," he teased.  Nodding, he moved forward to kiss her.  "Don't worry.  I'll bow out if it gets hairy." 

He walked with her to their quarters and then took a deep breath before she slipped down the hatch.  "Wish me luck?"

She gave him a long, slow kiss, heated and hungry.  "That do you?"

Wash's grin was brilliant.  "I promise not to be long."  He smacked at her playfully, watched as she slipped into their quarters, and then continued down the hall and back into the galley.

Quick assessment of the room revealed that the jug of atrocious-tasting wine they'd all been so thoroughly enjoying minutes ago was now smashed into the wall.  "It didn't taste that bad," he chided kindly.  Not waiting for a welcome, he went to get some rag to mop the mess up with.

Mal rubbed his forehead, staring down at a pot full of cold, congealed protein.  "Thought I told you to go check the course."  He tried to decide if the rumbling in his stomach was worth trying to put the stuff in his mouth.

"I did," Wash cheerfully replied, ignoring Mal for the most part as he wiped the spill up.  "I suppose I could go check again, but I doubt we've deviated in five minutes."  After he wiped up all the liquid, Wash carefully placed the broken shards onto the rag. "You sure did a number on the pot."

Mal shrugged.  "Shoddy craftsmanship.  Don't suppose there's anything left that's actually palatable?"

Wash straightened, carefully holding the broken pieces before him.  "I suppose that depends on your definition of palatable." He carried the rag to the trash receptacle and dumped the shards. 

"Anything not prepared by anyone on this ship, apparently," Mal muttered, pushing the pot aside.  "Isn't someone supposed to be doing dishes?  Correct me if I'm wrong, but we do wash the pots, not just keep throwing in fresh protein and hoping it gets better?"  He slammed the plate that had been covering the pot into the sink, nearly causing it to shatter as well.

Wash quickly took the plate away from Mal, setting it in the sink to wash it.  "Hey, I'm a fairly competent cook, you know.  I could whip you something up." He eyed the protein in the pot.  "Better than that, at any rate." Wrinkling his nose, he added, "I think we really should enroll Simon in some cooking classes."

"Have to enroll him in 'finding your ass with both hands' class first," Mal snapped, thwapping a spoon against the counter irately in a maddening tattoo.  "What are you doin' here?  Zoe punishing us or something?"

Wash scowled at the remark, but quickly quelled his irritation.  "I came of my own free will.  Heard some commotion in here and thought I'd see what it was."  He studied Mal's profile, aware of the darkness that seemed to be exuding from him.  It was so tangible as to be nearly repellant.  There were a plethora of things he thought of to say to Mal, but none of them seemed apt.  "I can leave if you'd prefer."

Mal tossed the spoon in after the plate.  "Zoe...she didn't hear?"  His tone was somewhere between annoyed and pitiful.  He paused, trying to imagine a situation so bleak that even Zoe wouldn't come after him.  It pulled him up short.

For a moment Wash felt a pang of regret for not letting Zoe see to Mal.  They had a bond that Wash could never pretend to have with Mal.  If anyone could understand the captain, or make things better, it would be her.  "She did, but I convinced her to let me come instead.  Thought it might be easier."

"Easier.  Right."  Mal turned away, pacing down the short length of the galley.  "There somethin' you want, Wash?  Some job you'd like to kick up a fuss over, or something I said to your wife that don't sit exactly right with you?"  Heaven knew that was the only time Wash ever did have anything to say to him.

Wash busied himself with the dishes, forcing himself not to let Mal's temper draw a rise out of him.  Somehow he felt that perhaps that was exactly what Mal needed--to rip into someone and let it all out--but he was going to try to stave that off as best he could, if possible.  "Look, I'm just trying to be competent here. But all you do is complain, no matter how hard we work.  Someday, we're going to stop trying, and you won't be able to do everything by yourself."

Mal snapped at that, stalking towards his quarters, ignoring the emptiness that gnawed at his insides.  "On that day, I doubt I'll notice much of a difference."

Mal's face was hard and set as he urged Honey forwards.  She was his mare, his own that his mother had let him raise from a foal and taught him to train and care for.  Now they said she was sick, but Mal knew better.  Honey was strong—there was nothing wrong with her that wouldn't get better soon enough.  They just had to get far enough away from the ranch, so no one would find her, and then she could get better...

Bob was wrong; his mother was wrong--Honey was going to make it, with or without their help.  She had him, and that was all she needed.  He thought her gait felt strong and sure beneath him. Her strides were long and loping, her flanks warm and her mane soft.  So intent was he on getting her to a save haven so he could properly care for her that he didn't notice her slowing.  She came to a halt as the sun was setting.  "C'mon, girl," Mal urged, not yet grasping the gravity of the situation. "Just a bit futher. C'mon." He clicked his heels, trying to spur her on.

It didn't take too long, though for him to catch her labored breathing.  He slid down immediately, feeling awful for having ridden her, even bareback without the heavy saddle.  "Honey, girl..."  She nosed at him helplessly, and Mal gritted his teeth.  "Just...just walk.  We'll walk from here."  He continued, leading her in a slow amble up towards the top of the ridge—once they were out of the valley, they'd surely be safe, and then Honey could catch her breath and get better.

The fresh wind hit Mal in the face as they crested the rise, and he drank in it like salvation.  Turning to share his renewal with his horse, his heart sank: Honey's head was bent, her eyes clouded over.  Her breath still came ragged, to the point that her sides heaved with the strain of it.  "Honey," he croaked, reaching out to try to lift her head. "Honey, no.  No."

"God damn—"  He bit his tongue as soon as the words had come out.  His mother might not be around, but every time he took the Lord's name in vain, he couldn't see anything but her face.  Driven to inarticulation in his grief, he pressed his face against Honey's sweat-slicked withers, pressing his eyes closed tight to try and manage the pain.

Honey seemed to sense his grief and finally raised her head, just so she could rest it on his shoulder.  Mal had to laugh incredulously at that, even as the tears stung his eyes; it was as though she was comforting him.  "You're a good girl," he said weakly as he stroked her nose.  "Such a good girl."

He couldn't tell how long he stood there, just hanging onto her, even as darkness fell properly and the stars came out.  It was only when he felt Honey shivering that he cursed himself and pulled a blanket out of his pack to wipe her down.  "I'm sorry," he whispered, as it all came crashing down on him that he'd tortured Honey and dragged her up here to die, slowly and in misery.  "I'm so sorry..." He looked back towards the valley helplessly, wishing now for help, for someone, anyone to come and find them.

At first he was certain it was just a trick of the lights, or his eyes failing him, but he soon realized the shadowy figure he thought he saw was actually a man.  He resolved into Bob Douglas, father of his friend Timmy.  The man was riding a stocky mare and sidled up to Mal and Honey without saying a word. For a while he sat there looking out at the plains and the stars.  "Your mother thought I might find you out here."

Mal wouldn't meet his eyes.  "I'm sorry," he muttered.  "Thought...thought maybe she'd be all right.  Didn't mean to hurt her."  He plucked up a handful of dry grass in his agitation.

"Know you didn't mean to," he replied calmly, "But you are."  He lowered his gaze to Mal, studying the teenager with sadness.  "Only one kindness as can be done for her now."

"Yes, sir," Mal said wretchedly, forcing himself to stand and face Bob.  "I'll...I can do it."  He lifted his head to meet the older man's eyes, trying to be brave.

Bob offered a smile to the boy.  Noting that he wasn't armed, he easily unclipped his pistol from his belt and offered it butt-end down to Mal.  "You don't have to do this."

Mal swallowed, taking the piece.  "It's my fault she's hurtin'.  I should help her."  He turned away, blinking hard to try and clear his eyes of tears.  If he was a man, he should be able to do this.  Honey was his, and it was his responsibility.  Cocking the gun sounded unnaturally loud in the stillness, and Honey lifted her head to regard him.  "Easy, girl," he whispered raggedly, stroking her neck.  "Easy..."  He waited for her head to droop again so he could line up properly.  He had to do it perfectly, in a single shot.

Bob squeezed his knees together, stilling his own horse beneath him so she wouldn't spook when the gun finally fired. 

Finally, Honey's head lowered again, and Mal gave her one last, lingering pat, then drew in a deep breath and brought the pistol up to aim straight between her eyes.  He pulled the trigger fast, not giving himself time to think about it, because if he thought, he'd never be able to do it.

She collapsed to the earth, hard and heavy, and Mal turned away, his cheeks cold from the wind against the wet tear streaks.  He dropped the pistol on the ground and started walking, not knowing or caring where he was going, only needing to get away, to be somewhere else, alone...

After stopping to retrieve his gun and to say a silent word to the deceased horse, Bob had little trouble finding Mal again. He pulled his horse into a slow walk beside him.  He did not attempt to direct Mal back toward the ranch, just ambled along beside him for several long minutes.  "Learned yourself an important life lesson today, Malcolm," he said softly.  "You're always gonna be losing those things you love.  That's the way of life.  Not an easy thing to accept, but one you must learn to face.  Running away don't solve nothing; makes things worse, most times." He offered a sad smile to the boy.  "It's easier with family about; don't gotta do it all alone."

"What do you know?" Mal snarled.  "You didn't care about her—just told me she was like to die, but you didn't do anything to help her, to make her better."  He continued walking blindly.

"You've got to learn the limits, son.  Nothing lasts forever.  I tried to help that horse, and you know I did.  But I also knew when to let go, and when to listen to experience."

"Limits..."  Mal laughed bitterly.  "Limits are all anyone wants to give me, seems like.  Be nice if someone'd just once let me the hell alone."

Bob drew his reins up, pulling his mare to a stop.  He watched Mal keep walking.  "Someday you'll regret those words, son."

Continue to part three