Khiloh sighed. “Wash had a rough time when he got here, and it took him a real long spell to adjust. Back then I was the new guy with a lot of training in how to hurt people, and no bloody clue how to help them.”

“Appears you learned,” said Mal.

“I think - Wash taught me,” said Khiloh simply. “As hurt and scared and pissed off as he was really open, and he - he - showed me what it was he was going through, an’ let me help.”

Mal smiled wryly. Hurt and scared and open and pissed off. Yep, that’d be Wash. “I’m worried,” Mal admitted, shifting his weight to one leg and leaning on the gate. Why he could say that to Khiloh and not to his fellow prisoners, he wasn’t exactly sure. Less personal, he supposed.

“Back off,” Khiloh ordered, his voice gentle.

Mal obeyed, startled. “Wha-“

“Don’t wanna look too friendly, if anyone’s watchin,” explained the guard. Mal nodded and stepped back, standing at attention.

“Look, Mal, I’m hurting for him too,” said Khiloh. “That guy’s a better friend to me than - it’s – well, unless you’re into kicking people around, this ain’t a fun job. Wash’ll come out in the middle of the pouring rain in mid-winter when anyone with sense is inside, and stand out here just to talk and keep me company.”

“Been a friend to me, too,” Mal said. “I was a mess, an’ for some odd reason the fella adopted me, drug me outa’ that. Wasn’t kind to him in the process, but he stuck by.”

Khiloh nodded, a genuine smile tinged with sadness on his face. “We can have our very own little worryin’ about Wash support group.”

“It’s a plan,” said Mal. “Not, well, a good one exactly, but-“

“It’ll do,” finished Khiloh. He sighed. “Is it really horrible of me to be glad this happened in the cafeteria, so my Sergeant couldn’t blame it on me?”

“You’re scared of them, aren’t you?” asked Mal. “They really treat their own people so bad?”

Khiloh nodded. “It’s – just like with you guys. It’s not policy, and – but – well, things happen.”

“To you?” Mal asked, remembering how completely terrified Khiloh had been when they first met. Likely there was some basis for that. He shivered and wrapped his arms around himself, wishing longingly for the warmer summer weather.

The guard nodded again. He studied Mal for a while, clearly struggling with a decision. “Years back, back in the wild West kinda period here, I turned in one of my co-workers for beating a prisoner, badly.”

“Wild West?” Mal questioned.

Khiloh nodded. “During the war, in the early days. Wasn’t locked down like now, prisoners had the run of the place so long as they showed back up at their yards at night.”

Khiloh shifted position, eyeing the gate longingly and instead of leaning on it, striking it in a display of mock anger. “Didn’t work so well. The prisoners would be watchin' stuff on the cortex, and most of us knew folks in the war - it got personal.” He turned away and paced restlessly, uncomfortable with the conversation and the memories.

“Prisoners would attack us sometimes for not much reason, and we reciprocated aplenty. Lotta of prisoners get shot, usually when a guard would lay into a prisoner and a bunch of other guys would gang up to protect him,” explained the guard.

Mal raised his eyebrows. “Fun times,” he commented wryly.

“Yeah,” said Khiloh, taking a deep breath. “Anyway, after I ratted that guy out, someone, my Lieutenant I think, spread the word around that I’d beaten and killed one of the inmates. So one day I wound up alone in a yard with a mob of angry prisoners, and they attacked me. I freaked out and drew my gun, but I couldn’t pull the trigger and they just - beat me down, disarmed me, and this one big guy slams a boot into my back I figure I’m in for it, these guys are gonna take out everything on me. And then I heard Wash yelling at them to stop.”

“He saved me. Got the other prisoners away, used my radio to call for help, and just sat there with me. That – was one of the most compelling experiences I’ve ever had, being protected by a prisoner of all things when I was hurt and scared out of my mind.”

“Now isn’t that somethin,’” said Mal quietly. “I get the feeling you earned that loyalty, though.”

~~~~~

Mal walked back into the housing unit and looked around the room, regretting his earlier harshness. His eyes sought out Zeke, who was busying himself with tidying his bunk. “Welcome back,” said Zeke with a genuine smile of greeting. It’s okay, his eyes reassured.

Mal sighed and approached Straaker, sitting down on the bunk across from his. Straaker was lying down, and he opened his eyes tiredly, shrinking back almost imperceptibly when he saw Mal.

Mal looked away from Straaker and addressed everyone. “Wash’s in solitary, got charged with assaulting an officer. Khiloh seems sure enough he’ll be returned in one piece.”

Mal looked sideways at Zeke. “I – maybe might not have exactly meant what I said earlier,” he said. “About Wash.”

Zeke smiled. “I know. Can’t say as I’ve ever seen a man try quite so hard to hide how worried he was.” He boxed Mal lightly on the arm. “You’re a good friend. To all of us.”

Mal looked away, embarrassed. “I hate all of you, ya’ know,” he said playfully.

“Is that why you beat us up yourself when the guards fall down on the job?” asked Straaker dryly.

Mal snorted in laughter, grinning. “I’m startin’ to have hope for you after all,” he said. “An’ yep, that’d be the reason.” He eyed Matty and Zeke. “Ya’ know, you two kinda stand out, not bein’ beat up an’ all.”

“No no no no,” said Matty, putting his hands in the air. “Don’t even go there, mister – hey!” He yelped as Mal mock-tackled him and pretended to pummel him with his fists. “No picking on the little guy!”

“Fine,” grumbled Mal. It was his turn to yip in surprise as Zeke elbowed in and dragged him away from Matty. “Hey! You’re not little!” he said, drawing back his fist menacingly.

“No, but you did already punch me earlier,” Zeke pointed out with a grin, lifting Mal up almost effortlessly and tossing him back. “Really, that does only leave Matty unscathed by your wrath.”

“He does have a point,” said Mal, narrowing his eyes and looking thoughtfully at Matty.

“Um – point of order?” said Gray, raising one hand in the air. He was still lying down, but he had himself propped up and he was grinning. “It was Straaker that actually technically beat me up, not Mal.”

“Are you suicidal?” asked Matty. “Don’t tell him that!”

“No, I’m suicidal,” interjected Straaker.

Mal boxed Straaker lightly, giving him a look of good-natured understanding as he winced involuntarily. “I do believe you’re gonna make it, ya’ know that?” he said. His voice was playful, but a more serious note in his eyes reassured the uncertain man.

“Why – did that man attack you? In the cafeteria?” Matty questioned hesitantly.

Mal grinned. “He was just conductin’ human durability tests. That, or he thought I was the cook.”

Zeke rolled his eyes. “Mal-“

Mal returned the look and sighed, leaning back and settling in for the conversation. “Guess it’s time I told y’all about the least covered up cover-up in the ‘verse.”

~~~~~

Wash paced in circles in the tiny box he was confined in, trying desperately not to lose himself to his memories. It was impossible not to surrender to the past, and finally he sat on the floor in the corner of the cell and gave up the fight. It was so quiet he could hear himself breathe, hear the frightened pounding of his heart, even the rustling of his hair against the concrete wall. When he cried out softly for help, his voice barely a whisper, it seemed to fill the room like a scream, and he flinched and screwed his eyes shut.

~~~~~

“I – really did work it out myself, sir,” Wash said for about the millionth time. His eyes drifted shut in exhaustion, savoring the split second before a hand slapped lightly across his face and grabbed his handcuffs, pulling him to his feet.

“It’s rude to fall asleep when someone’s talking to you,” said his interrogator.

“It’s rude to slap a guy when he’s napping,” retorted Wash tiredly.

A smile twitched the corner of his face. “Don’t think I don’t admire you,” said his interrogator. “It takes courage to stand your ground in a position like this. But this won’t end until you give us what we want.”

“I could make something up,” said Wash, half joking and half desperately appealing to his captors.

~~~~~

He was crying, and despite how ashamed he was, he couldn’t stop. There was no time and no place any more, just endless questions and exhaustion and misery. He felt like he’d forgotten what it felt like to sleep on a real bed, to eat and drink when he was hungry or thirsty, to not have to ask permission to use the bathroom, to be free from people questioning and yelling.

Someone new walked into the room and stood before him, studying him for a minute. A gentle touch on the shoulder, a cool, damp cloth pressed into his hand to wipe his eyes. He took it and pressed it gratefully against his face, finally looking up.

“Thanks,” he said. Not all of his interrogators were harsh; many had shown him true kindness and understanding. It was men like this who saved his sanity, and assured him that one of these days, life would be worth living again. He knew it was only part of an endless game of good cop-bad cop, but he still appreciated the few gentle people with their often genuinely kind words and compassionate gestures.

“You need a break from all this, don’t you,” the man asked in a soft voice. “Gets to be a bit much, after a while.”

Wash nodded. “Please,” he said, not caring if it sounded like he was begging. He probably was.

“Okay,” his new interrogator said kindly, and Wash went limp with relief. “We can do that.”

“Thank you,” whispered Wash, trying to stop his hated tears. “Very much.”

In the blink of an eye, the interrogator’s manner changed completely. “Stand up,” he ordered, all compassion gone from his voice. Wash looked up, startled, and the man slammed a baton down across his leg without giving him a chance to obey. “I said, stand up, and stop crying like a gorram girl! It hurts my ruttin’ ears,” he muttered in disgust.

Wash leapt to his feet, trying to ignore the pain radiating through his leg. Two guards grabbed the now-terrified Wash and cuffed his wrists as he looked at the interrogator in hurt confusion.

“You’ll get a break, all right,” he said coldly. “In solitary confinement. We’ll hold you there in the dark until you rutting beg for the chance to cooperate with us.”

“I – I’m begging now,” said Wash plaintively. “We could skip the whole locked up in the dark thing.”

The interrogator ignored him and looked at the guards. “Check him once a week. When he’s not so anxious for a break, bring him back in.”

~~~~

Wash didn’t bother to fight the tears trickling from his eyes; there was no point in trying to hide his emotions, nobody to pretend to and nobody to hear him. Those desperate months alone in the darkness had forever turned the miserable experience of being stuck in solitary into his personal nightmare. He tried frantically to reason with himself. You’re not back there, it’s not then, it’s okay. They’ll let you out and you’ll be back with your friends. Don’t think about the past, don’t let yourself do this.

He remembered Mal’s words to Straaker. It’s all psychological. Figure that out and it’s not so bad. Psychological.

What if they don’t come? What if they decide to just leave me in here again? He remembered Straaker crying as he talked about being hauled out of his cell and then thrown back in, and shuddered. As long as Wash had spent in solitary, it’d taken far longer to recover from the experience of longing endlessly for some form of human contact and understanding, and instead being met with coldness and unyieldingly rough treatment. He’d emerged hating the human race he’d needed so badly, and it had been a long time before he found a sense of equilibrium and trust again.

He looked around in the dark, running his fingers along the wall. It’s not so bad, he repeated to himself firmly, trying to rationalize his way to some sense of sanity. His basic needs were being met, and nobody was going to hurt him.

Psychological. Wash had a feeling he was going to be repeating that word a lot in the days to come.