Disclaimer: The characters belong to Joss Whedon. I only play with them because I love them.

THE WEDJAT EYE: PT 2

“You want to do what sir?” Zoe asked, almost without any hint of incredulity.

“Take her up for a spin myself. Get behind the controls again.”

“Uh-huh?”

“What? You don't think it's a good idea?”

“Well, you did nearly kill us all that one time, sir. When we went to interview that pilot with a list of recommendations as long as your leg. You know, sir – the one you hired.”

Mal shrugged. “I ain't gonna try anythin' difficult to start with,” he explained, a touch impatiently. “Just fly her in a straight line for a while.”

“Think we got an autopilot for that,” she replied.

“OK! I'll maybe try a few changes of course.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You don't think Wash'll like it, do you?” he leaned towards her, eyes blazing, challenging her to disagree.

“Think he'll hate it, sir.”

“Well then, I'll just have to remind him whose gorram boat this is!” Mal declared, setting his shoulders and stalking off in the direction of the bridge.

******************************

She was resting in their bunk when Wash returned, wild-eyed and with hair that looked at though he'd been tearing at it. Zoe raised a quizzical eyebrow and asked “How'd it go, sweetcakes?”

“Oh, smooth as a very unsmooth thing,” her husband said in a ragged tone. “Zoe, honey, how long has the Captain been psychotic?”

“Think it's a project he's been working on for a while now.”

Wash sat down on the bed next to her and pulled off his boots. “Well I'd say he's just about perfected it. He would win the shiny hat in any competition for psychotics.” He looked at Zoe, his face suddenly very serious. “I don't give a good gorram what he says – what he does – I'm not letting him touch Serenity's controls EVER AGAIN. It's like he's got some kind of death wish. There's something stranger than usual about him, Zoe. And he's not known for his gentle ways.”

She nodded. It was true. Something was gnawing at Mal, making him more volatile and demanding than ever. *********************************

“Good morning Mal,” Inara said without turning round.

“How d'ya know it was me?” he asked. “River been schoolin' you in mind-reading?”

She turned around and gave him a charming, if condescending, smile. “You're the only one who ever comes in here without knocking,” she explained.

“Well, I ain't had the benefit of your trainin' in manners an' all.” He sat down opposite her, knees spread wide apart and hands resting on his thighs. “Which is where you can help me.”

Inara gave a low chuckle. “Really Mal! I think you're beyond help as far as etiquette goes,” she laughed, then noticing the storm brooding behind his eyes continued, “but the project might be amusing.”

Mal was always quick to take offence as far as Inara was concerned but just now he was extra sensitive to even the slightest implication of criticism. The urge to snipe back at her and stomp off was almost unbearable, but somehow he managed to stay in his seat. He reminded himself that this very air of superiority of hers was why he had rented Inara a shuttle in the first place. It was the special quality she brought to Serenity. A superiority and respectability without which many doors would be forever closed to him. Never knew where you were goin' to find work. Needed to be prepared for anythin'.

He swallowed his pride and flashed her a dangerous smile. “Of course, if you're not up to the job....” ********************************

“No, Mal. You always start with the outermost pieces of cutlery,” Inara's voice betrayed her exasperation. Mal seemed to be taking a perverse pride in not being able to remember even the simplest rules of civilized behaviour. “OK. Leave it. We'll try something else. How would you address an ambassador?”

He looked at her blankly, desperately searching through his memory for the right words. “Your Highness?”

“No. Your Excellency. For God's sake, Mal! Are you even trying?”

He scowled at her like a rebellious schoolbody. “Yeah. But it's all so....stupid! Give me another.”

“A House Priestess?”

“Your Holy Whoreness!” he exploded, getting to his feet. His face was like thunder. “I ain't cut out for all this bowin' and scrapin' go se.”

“You certainly are not,” she agreed. “I don't know why you ever wanted to do this. Let me carry on being Serenity's ambassador. You just be her captain.” *********************************

“Want you to teach me how to track, Jayne,” Mal announced.

Jayne, on his back on the exercise bench, grunted with the effort of lifting two twenty pound weights for the forty-nineth time but did not reply.

“You hear me Jayne?” Mal asked again, more loudly this time.

“I hear you Mal,” Jayne said, completing his set of fifty lifts and replacing the weights on their stand.

“Don't play the houzi di pigu with me, Jayne. I ain't in the mood.”

“Don't know what's rattled your cage,” Jayne muttered. “I ain't playin' at nothin'.”

“Trackin'. I want you to teach me.”

“No.”

“No? What d'ya mean, no?!” Mal had been struggling to keep his temper in check for days. Other people might need wheedling and coaxing, but Jayne just needed putting in his place. Forcibly. “I ain't askin'. I'm tellin',” he snarled, grabbing a handful of the front of Jayne's sweat drenched vest in his left hand and curling his right into a fist.

“Two reasons,” Jayne said. His tone was a little unsteady but he met Mal's gaze. “One, it's an outdoors kind of thing. Can't be done on a ship.”

Mal could see the reason in this but tightened his grip on Jayne's vest all the same.

“Two, trackin's a job for a man on his own. Can't be fixin' up jobs, managin' crew and rescuin' fugees if you're gonna track right.”

Jayne was winning this confrontation. “And three – you ain't got the patience.” And the mercenary looked down to where Mal's hand was still clenched around a fistful of vest to emphasize the point.

Mal released him with a shove to the chest that sent him stumbling backwards for a few paces.

“And four – if I teach you to track, you ain't gonna have no need for me,” Jayne mumbled once he had gone.