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Malcolm "Mal" Reynolds (i_wearbrown) wrote in we_coexist,

It was quite the juxtaposition of two kinds of comfort; the draw of a campfire was an ancient one and the draw of the black was something that the ship looming behind the fire represented (or at least once had), was quite futuristic for most that lived within the City.

And there Mal was, stranded between the two.

Mal hadn't startled at the sound of footsteps. The scuff of foot against dirt had been too loud for anyone trying to sneak up on him and lacked the dragging and stumbling that had occurred with the zombies. If someone wanted to stride on up and start something with the Browncoat, well, he'd welcome the excitement right about now. Anything to break the silence.

As the fire's light stretched to illuminate just barely the fellow standing at a distance, Mal regretted thinking the word "anything". Or at least part of him did. The other part would never surface to the light of day. Crew would always be family. Even doctors. Even that doctor.

Mal rose to his feet again, but to Simon's relief, didn't reach for his gun. Instead, he bent down to pick up another piece of firewood and drop it atop the flames. "Can't be good for business when a doctor's coughin'."