Author's note: This chapter goes out with special thanks to my friend and writing buddy Jill, who helped me get my Harper characterization right, dangled plot bunnies enticingly in front of my nose to get me to write this story in the first place, and last and very much not least poked and prodded me with suggestions and ideas until this chapter doubled in length! (Okay.....I kinda hate her for that......but you can also thank her for half the material in this......so I won't complain too much!) :) Thanks Jill!

Stowaway, chapter 3

“When are folks on this ship gonna realize that cargo goes in cargo containers, and people are supposed to be stowed in cabins?” muttered Mal, unlatching the lid to the box.

A small and exceptionally dirty young man was glaring up at him with piercing blue eyes that stared out from under a clump of bedraggled, spiky blond hair. He was wearing the remains of a dark blue Hawaiian shirt and had thrown himself back against the far wall of the box.

It’s Wash, only smaller, thought Mal. And dirtier. And crankier. The eyes left his face and zeroed in on the gun on Mal’s hip, telegraphing the stowaway’s next move.

*

Harper stared up at the seemingly towering figure who’d just yanked open the crate and was now fixing him with a disgruntled glare. He was wearing a long, flowing brown leather coat and Independent Army uniform pants, and from his completely unfazed, authoritative manner, Harper figured that this was the ship’s captain. My dirty rotten luck I couldn’t be discovered by the poor sucker that does the dishes, thought Harper.

There was a gun resting in a well-worn holster on the man’s leg, and after an initial spike of fear, Harper noticed that the captain and he appeared to be alone on the cargo bay. If he could get his hands on that gun, maybe he could engineer a change of fortune.

The captain was acting surprisingly mild-mannered, and as he leaned in closer Harper coiled his legs under him, wondering at the last second if he should take a chance on this guy being some form of civilized human being. Yeah, right, he thought sarcastically. He lunged forward with all his remaining strength, his hands reaching for the gun.

As though effortlessly reading his mind, the captain whipped the gun from its holster and grabbed Harper by the front of his shirt, yanking him forcefully out of the crate and dropping him to his knees on the deck. Harper’s stomach turned and he cried out in pain and surprise, struggling frantically.

*

Oldest move in the book, thought Mal. What happened to just introducin’ yourself? The stowaway cried out at Mal’s forceful response to the attack, but rebounded quickly and made a frantic effort to wriggle free and throw himself at the gun in Mal’s hand.

Mal flipped his gun around and slammed the butt of it into the side of the intruder’s head, lessening the force of the blow at the last second in sudden reluctance to actually injure the small and not particularly threatening boy. His body went limp as Mal slammed him down on the metal deck of the cargo hold.

The now semiconscious stowaway lay on the floor with blood running down the side of his head and his eyes screwed tightly shut with pain. Mal nudged him with his foot, and the reaction was limited to an uncoordinated wiggle of one arm and a small moan. Maybe I should have knocked him out completely, thought Mal with sudden sympathy. My stowaway is suddenly having a very bad day.

Mal looked around, scratching his nose. Despite his rapidly improvised remark to Dobson about sticking Simon in a passenger cell, he wasn’t in a habit of imprisoning people on his ship, and in reality he had no such thing. Sighing, he reached down and grabbed the boy’s arms and started to drag him across the floor of the cargo hold. A tiny, whimpering cry of pain stopped him. Mal readjusted his grip, looping one arm under the stowaway’s chest, lifting him up and gripping the fabric of the back of his shirt firmly before hauling him forward again. It was awkward, but there were no further protests from his prisoner.

Reaching the far side of the bay, Mal eased the limp form back to the ground and pulled back a heavy metal panel, revealing a seldom-used storage nook. He pulled the weakly wiggling intruder inside and reluctantly reached up on a shelf within. He pulled down a heavy pair of handcuffs and knelt down beside the youngster, securing him carefully to the floor.

Something odd about the stowaway’s neck caught his eye. What the hell? Now this - is new. There was a circular metal device implanted in it that resembled some sort of electronic communication jack. Nasty-looking gadget. Mal dearly hoped he wasn’t looking at another of the Alliance’s most prized possessions gone astray.

Mal stood, walked out, sat on a crate, and groaned, his head aching. He supposed he should go get Zoe while he gave the kid time to come to his senses, but that would mean running into Jayne, and he didn’t feel like talking to Jayne, let alone protecting his new prisoner from the merc’s paranoid wrath.

Inara’s voice rolled out over the comm. “Captain?”

Mal could think of worse interruptions. He stood and made his way to the comm. “What’s up, Inara?”

“You – might wish to come to the bridge,” she said. “We’re being hailed by the Alliance – the Alliance Department of Agricultural Health and Resources, specifically.”

“Uh – I’ll be right up,” said Mal. He hurried over and fitted the panel back in place in front of the storage compartment, giving a sympathetic glance at the limp form lying within as he did so. He looks kinda wilted, but he ain’t exactly what I’d classify as an agricultural product. Agricultural Health didn’t sound like the most bloodcurdling of institutions the Alliance had ever dreamed up, but that didn’t mean he was gonna take anything for granted.

Mal strode onto the bridge and looked questioningly at Inara. “Sorry for interrupting, but I thought you might want to take this,” she said. “Apparently there’s a problem with the apples we purchased before we left.”

Mal raised his eyebrows and answered the wave. A plump man with an officious smile addressed him. “Thank you for your time, captain. We need to do a run-through on some paperwork for the cargo you picked up in port.”

“Happy to help in any way we can,” replied Mal smoothly.

“It appears you were sold an invasive variety that is not permitted to be transported off-planet. Now, this doesn’t become a major problem unless you intend to unload any of the cargo when you reach your destination.”

“Intended to eat ‘em on board,” said Mal.

“Okay, that’s what we needed to hear. Now, all I’m going to need from you is an inventory of the apples you’re transporting, and I’ll provide instructions for logging their consumption and disposal onboard.”

Mal bit his lip to avoid bursting into laughter. His mirth soon subsided as he was forced to count every apple in the crate and agree to provide charts of the date and time each was eaten, file preliminary affidavits in triplicate, and give a detailed report on the circumstances of their purchase.

Noting his frustration, Inara remarked, “Keeping you from something, Mal?”

Oh, nothing big, just the guy I got chained up and bleeding in the cargo bay. Kinda want to see if he’s recovered from the pistol-whipping I gave him yet, Mal thought snarkily. There was a part of him that longed to say it just to see her reaction.

“Ya know, when you think about it, I’m glad the Alliance won that war. Can you imagine the chaos that would reign among the universe if we didn’t have a government that cared enough to log apple cores in space?” grumbled Mal in reply. “Say, ain’t Wash supposed to be up here? Or Zoe?”

“Wash and Zoe are – otherwise occupied,” said Inara. “I agreed to watch the bridge for a while.”

So much for gettin’ Zoe’s help any time soon. “So, might I take that to mean you’re – unoccupied?” asked Mal with a grin.

Inara glared silently at him, and he picked up another cargo declaration form with a sigh.

*

Harper felt some semblance of coordination returning to his body, and his dazed head had stopped spinning about so sickeningly. The side of his head was throbbing, deep exhaustion was creeping up on him now that the adrenaline was wearing off, and his bruised body ached from lying on the metal deck.

He bit his lip and breathed deeply, still reeling from the blow and the shock of the completely overwhelming force of the captain’s attack. His captor was strong, smart, and feakin’ effective. Smart move, genius, putting yourself even more on his bad side than you were to begin with. He cursed himself for being so stupid as to imagine that he could find a way out that easy, and then cursed himself some more for getting on this piece of junk in the first place.

The slightly comforting thought that he was still alive flashed through his mind. Despite the lightning-fast violence of his reaction, the man hadn’t beaten him, either, he realized with surprise. Harper had tried his best to keep from crying out in pain as the guy had started to drag him, but when he’d failed he was surprised at the instant and merciful reaction from his captor. And when he’d braced himself to be dropped on the metal floor, he’d actually been lowered down quite carefully. Probably wants to keep me in one piece for some blood-curdling reason, thought Harper.

He braved opening his eyes, and immediately his heart sank. Hanging on the wall, significantly coiled right smack in his line of sight and clearly visible despite the low light in his tiny, improvised cell, was a bullwhip. He instinctively fought to escape and succeeded only in discovering that he was chained firmly to the floor.

Anger, despair, and fear overwhelmed him as he lay miserably on the floor, counting away the minutes that seemed to stretch on forever as he waited for the inevitable sound of footsteps on metal grating. He tried closing his eyes, tried looking away, tried everything he could to escape the certain knowledge that once again his dirty rotten life involved helplessly waiting for some worthless, sadistic jerk to reduce his existence to blinding pain.

After an eternity that seemed far too short, he heard footsteps, and as the captain pulled away the panel in front of him Harper tried furiously to contain his fear. He lay limply on the floor and looked up at the man standing over him. There was no sense in struggling; he was acutely helpless and he knew it.

He watched as his captor brushed back his long brown leather coat and withdrew the gun from his holster, looking at him grimly. Harper’s heart stopped as he stared up, unable to look away. Rather than leveling it at him, though, he simply placed the gun on a ledge behind him and walked into the room.

He leaned back against the wall calmly and studied Harper. “Figure I’ll avoid a reenactment an’ leave that safely out of range. What’s your name, son?”

“What do you care? Gonna sing me a lullaby?” Harper snapped, wishing the guy would get it over with and skip the part where he tried to talk like he was gonna be all warm and friendly.

“Cause it would be a good bit easier than callin’ you ‘Incredible pain in my neck who had the gall to stow away on board my ship without so much as a by your leave,’ is all,” replied Mal.

“Harper,” Harper said shortly,

“All right, Harper. Mine’s Malcolm Reynolds, ah – Mal, and I’m the captain of this here ship.” He shifted position, knocking the coiled whip off the wall. Reaching down to pick it up, he asked, “Why don’t you tell me what you were doing hiding out in a crate doing a poor impression of cargo?”

*

Mal straightened, waiting for an answer, and did a double-take when he glimpsed the expression of dread on the face of his young stow-away; an instant later understanding and horror hit him. There was something in that look that made his stomach turn; he was holding a whip, and the boy lying chained to the floor was curled up in fear, certain it was going to be used on him. Oh, God. I just left that kid staring at this thing for more than an hour. He closed his eyes momentarily and took a deep breath, then set it down out of sight on the other side of the wall.

This was going to be even harder and more complicated than Mal had thought it was going to be. He knelt down quietly and studied the bedraggled young man more closely, seeing the fear and exhaustion in his eyes and picking out a network of bruises camouflaged by the dirt on his face and arms. “Son, I haul cattle,” said Mal. “Sometimes, at least. When I have to, beagles bein’ in short supply an’ all. Point is, I ain’t never used that thing on a person, and I ain’t gonna start with you. Kinda doubt I’ve ever actually hit a cow with it.”

Harper gulped. “Figured that was why you stuck me in here with it, wanted me to see what you were gonna do,” he said, a mix of puzzlement and very faint hope in his voice.

Mal’s frustration with the kid was rapidly fading into compassion. A person didn’t think like that unless he’d been kicked around plenty, and Mal had a keen understanding of what that felt like. He shook his head. “I don’t whip people,” he said gently. “Not my style. I’m kinda frustrated with you, an’ I’m not sure I trust you on my boat, with my crew. But I ain’t gonna hurt you.”

Mal looked around, scanning the shelves. “There’s a spare blanket and a bunch of canned peaches in here, too. What’d you figure I was gonna do to you with those?” he asked with a smile creasing the corners of his eyes.

“Feed ‘em to me?” asked Harper hopefully, a brief glint of returned humor flashing in his eyes. But just as quickly, it vanished and was replaced with dulled resignation. “I didn’t mean that. I don’t expect you to feed me.”

“You’re good for the ego, ya’ know that? It’s nice to meet someone whose expectations of me are so mind-bogglingly low, easy to live up to.” Mal rubbed his now aching temples again. This mess was making him long for Jayne’s pacing. “Say, you happen to steal a really big gun while you were skulking about my ship?”

“No!” Harper cried with desperation in his voice. “I didn’t steal anything, I swear.” The hint of accusation clearly terrified him, as though he had no expectations of being believed. “And I didn’t kidnap that Vera lady you guys were talking about, either!” Harper turned his face away and closed his eyes, trembling.

Mal pulled a key from his pocket and addressed the young stowaway firmly. “You lay a finger on any member of my crew, or tamper with this ship, I won’t whip you. I won’t punish you. I will kill you where you stand, dong ma?”

Harper nodded, and Mal gently unlocked the handcuffs holding him to the floor, regretting the roughness with which he’d treated him earlier. Every muscle in the boy’s body was tense with fear.

“How ‘bout we get you patched up a bit?” Mal asked. Harper nodded again and tried to drag himself to his feet, in obvious pain. Mal stood and reached out a hand to help him to his feet, supporting him carefully, and Harper jerked away fearfully from his touch. Mal let him go, but quickly grabbed him again as he started to fall, provoking a bout of furious but stunningly ineffective wiggling. Despite that, Mal managed to get the young man on his feet.

“Can get a stretcher easy enough,” said Mal. Harper shook his head, and Mal smiled slightly. More than a little of himself in this young fella. “Come on, I got a good doctor on board.” Mal pointed. “Infirmary’s right there, not far to walk.”

“Doctor?” asked Harper suspiciously.

“Yeah, you know, guy with a white coat and needles. Only mine doesn’t wear a white coat, but he still knows what he’s doin.’ He’ll make you feel considerably better ‘bout life.”

Harper shook his head rapidly. “I don’t need a doctor.”

“Uh, yes, son, you do. I made sure of that when I first met you, remember?”

“I said I don’t need a freakin’ doctor, okay!” protested Harper furiously. “I’m not going in there!”

Mal raised his eyebrows, irritated. “Yes, you are. I’m not offerin’ you a choice.” Harper shrunk back and looked away, the dull, defeated expression returning to his face. Just shiny. The ‘verse spat out some hellish hybrid between Wash and River and made him my problem, thought Mal.

Mal sighed for what he thought was about the sixty-seventh time that day. “Look,” he said, keeping his voice gentle. “I mean you no harm. But even though you don’t trust me, I am the captain of this ship, and I do have to be able to give you orders and you do have to follow them. That’s just how it works, an’ I need to be able to do it without callin’ up your nightmares.”

Harper looked him directly in the eyes. “You gonna beat me if I don’t obey you?”

“You’re never gonna learn the answer to that question, because you’re gonna act like a rational, intelligent human being and cooperate with perfectly reasonable requirements like letting us take care of an injured man. When you meet my crew and watch how they act around me, ask yourself if it looks like I’m in the habit of beating them.”

Despite the seriousness of the conversation, Mal had to grin slightly at the notion of anybody thinking he held his crew under a tyrannical rule. Between Wash challenging him at regular intervals, Zoe questioning his every move, and Kaylee sulking every time he had the gall to be less than a perfect gentleman…….beating them? He could only imagine the fireworks that would ensue if he tried anything of the sort.

He chuckled. “Come on. Why don’t we mitigate the effects of your last beating before you go negotiating new ones.”

Even Harper looked mildly amused at that, and he followed Mal into the infirmary without complaint. Mal waved him over to a table and hit the comm. button. “Simon, I need you in the infirmary.”