A man with a crutch limped out of one of the cells and barked orders to the three men gathered in the room across the way, who rose swiftly from their poker game, grabbed some very intimidating weaponry (talk about overcompensation!) and fanned out to cover the entrances.

That was the voice, the voice from the cellar. But now Wash was surprised to see that the villain of the piece was just an ordinary man, a guy you'd pass on the street. Anybody, really, and nobody.

Callum turned back to someone in the cell. It seemed to Wash there was a touch of affection in his voice as he said, "Don't worry. I'll be back in time to say goodbye. But we must go greet Sergeant Reynolds. He's early, but no matter."

Wash figured he had maybe 10 minutes until Callum and the rest caught on to the ruse and high-tailed it back there. Probably less. He bounded towards the open cell door, grinning. Zoe was gonna be so surprised! Not Captain Speaks-with-Fist. Not Hillbilly Cobb, even. But him, Hoban Washburne, the most annoying yet supremely talented pilot in the 'verse, to the rescue! Perhaps she'd look a bit more kindly on him after this, not be quite so stand-offish, and they could...

He stopped. He gasped. He froze, mind reeling at the horror of it.

Burn the world into oblivion!

Indignation, rage, embarrassment, and just a smidgen of curiosity, all warred inside him as he stood there for the briefest second. Rage – mostly at his own delusions of heroic glory – won. And then he was moving forward, trying really hard not to look at certain things. Because Curiosity, which had appalling manners, was clutching at Rage's heel.

She would have slipped to the floor when Wash cut her bonds, but he caught her, and, holding her against his chest, half lifted, half dragged her to the far corner of the room, where he gingerly let them both sink down. Her long legs folded elegantly beneath her. Zoe's lush, very definitely un-shipmatey hair brushed against his cheek, and a few rogue strands sneaked under his collar, lightly tickling his neck. Had she fainted? No, she was still clutching him. Wuh de ma, the scars on her back!

He heard just the barest whisper. "....strong."

"You are. You're the strongest person I know," he said soothingly. "Strong and frightening. Scare the gos se out of me on a daily basis. No question," he continued in a slightly higher, brighter tone, "but you could probably kill me with your pinky, although I'd take it as a personal favor if you don't." Shut up, Washburne. You know she can't abide your babbling. But he was a stick jockey, who played with plastic toys and occasionally juggled geese. Comforting a naked (and therefore presumably unarmed?) warrior woman, one who had bled practically to death, was completely beyond his life experience.

No sound. Had she even heard him? He thought he was running his hands gently, tenderly over her back, but when he actually brought some attention to the task he found his fingers were tracing the scars. Like the lines on a celestial chart, the ones you fill in to transform the stars from discrete points of light into constellations. Which then become myths and live forever. She felt so cold.

Zoe was...elsewhere. She sensed powerful arms around her and an earthy, musky smell that drove away the odor of fresh blood. Someone was in the pit with her. Someone not Mal. Another soldier, come from the battlefield. He felt so warm. Not so bad here now. Maybe he'd stay with her until the end came. But now the arms were retreating. Pushing her away! No, no!

"Zo, Zoe, bao bei," Wash didn't even realize the endearment had slipped from his lips, as he tried to fend off her feebly grasping hands. "It's all right. I just want to cover you." But he felt terrible even as he stripped off his shirt. She hated, hated his flowery shirts. And this one reeked, thanks to a busy (yet increasingly productive) day of escaping and rescuing.

Zoe sat completely passive, which scared Wash more than any loaded rifle or sardonic eyebrow ever could, as he carefully put first her left arm, and then her right, into the short-sleeved tropical print shirt, and brought the front folds together.

Then, and only then, did Wash allow himself to look properly at her. God, she was breathtaking in that hideous shirt! A solar eclipse of elegant neck, impossibly full lips, large almond eyes. And beneath, on a blanket of pale blue, the garish green and yellow palm trees swelling forward over her breasts, giving the print an even bolder personality. All framed by a cascade of golden brown tresses. A sensation – natural enough, he knew, but surely inappropriate to the moment – stirred his lower regions. A small part of him, a very small part, was ashamed. But the rest of him was in love.

Wash's mind, multi-tasking as ever, gave just the barest nod to his dancing heart and raced forward. Gotta stop the bleeding. Gurney – sheet – got it! Gotta get away from here, out of this room at least. Go where? Back to the kitchen, out the front door? It's certain both'll be watched now. Merciful Buddha, she's so pale!

"Zoe, Zoe, come back, baby. You're gonna be okay, now," he repeated like a mantra, trying to catch her unfocused eye as he tore the sheet for bandages and wrapped her forearms. No reaction. He put his hands on her shoulders, but then was afraid to shake her, even slightly. This fragile, almost absent figure seemed so little like the commanding presence that he knew. He checked her pulse. Barely a flutter. She's lost too much blood.

Wash now felt like the furthest thing from a hero. In fact, he felt like a complete failure. Hoban Washburne, the most useless man in the 'verse. Somehow, he should have protected her from this.

Enough, you'll do self-loathing later. Wash forced his mind back into fairytale mode. Heroes need weapons, right, to defend the damsel in distress? He scooped up the contents of Fluffy's tray. Handling the syringe with extra care, he rolled everything up in what remained of the gurney sheet. What next, Prince Charming?

The asylum alarms cut off abruptly.

"Zoe," he tried again to rouse her, "We can't stay here. Can you walk?" No answer. Gorram stupid question, you idiot! Look at that floor over there. Of course she can't walk.

"Okay, hon'. Hold on to this." He placed the roll in her lap and put her hand on top it. Zoe had just enough awareness to wrap her other arm around his neck as he lifted her.

Her head fell heavily against his bare chest and she gave a light sigh. Yes, she thought. The warm solider is back and he'll stay with me until I go.

Where, where could they go? Won't get far like this. And Callum will hunt them, that's for damn sure. Have to hole up somewhere and hope to hell Kaylee brings the others.

End Chapter 6.