A.N.: little_dumpling on Live Journal gave me a prompt of "running." Here's what the prompt prompted.

It wasn't Wash's fight.

Hell, it wasn't even Jayne's fight.

But when the brawl which had started at the other end of the tavern rumbled its way through the room, depositing a couple of its larger and filthier elements on their table, spilling Jayne's ale, the man leapt up with a gleeful roar and joined the fray.

Well, to be fair, maybe the spilled ale made it Jayne's fight. It had been a pretty nice porter and he'd only got about halfway through it. Wash's pint had survived intact, as he'd seen the wreck coming and had jumped out of his chair and away, carefully balancing his glass to avoid spillage. He backed up into the circle of excited spectators, out of range of swinging fists, prepared to duck any flying objects or bodies.

Keeping an eye on Jayne – and the artistry of guy's fisticuffs was truly amazing, definitely worth watching – he shot occasional anxious glances toward the front door. The captain and Zoe, after having completed the opening moves of the current caper, were to meet Wash and their brand spanking new-hired gunman at this location to fill them in on the next steps of the plan. And he was pretty sure he'd be held responsible for any damage done to or by said gunman. Mal had looked him straight in the eye on depositing them at the joint, saying, "Stay sober and keep your heads down."

Sober, check. But Jayne's head certainly wasn't down, and Wash wondered if the captain fully comprehended the force of nature he'd taken on with the man. Was no way the guy would have taken any kind of an order from Wash, holding him in open contempt as he did. Jayne didn't have much use for a fellow who eschewed the manly virtue of hyper-aggressiveness, and whose fetishes had nothing to do with pointy objects or things that went bang. As far as his feelings went, this didn't much bother Wash, as he simply had better things to do with his testosterone, thank you very much.

But it had made sitting at a tiny table with the guy, occasionally bumping knees, kinda unpleasant, as any conversation Wash had attempted had been skewered by sneers and snarls. Pretty much, actually, like their daily interactions on Serenity. And any notion Wash had any control over what Jayne decided to do at any time, let alone after his drink had been dumped, was to laugh. Hysterically.

So here he was, sliding through yet another minor riot in yet another minor dive on yet another minor moon. But this time, he had the nagging sense that he had somehow cocked things up, that he should have been able to come up with some clever way of keeping his thuggish crewmate out of the thick of things. What exactly, he obviously had no clue, 'cause he would have done it if he did.

All his mental maunderings froze when a guy two bodies to Wash's left stepped out of the crowd toward the central knot of combat, where Jayne, his back to Wash, was merrily beating the crap out of a fellow half a head shorter, fifty kilos heavier, and far filthier. What riveted Wash's attention was the guy's hand coming out of his hip pocket and the fluid swing of an opening butterfly knife. And all this motion seemed to be aimed toward the area of his crewmate's right kidney.

"Jayne!" Wash yelped, but either his voice was lost in the din or the guy was, as usual, dismissing him, 'cause he gave no sign he'd heard Wash, unheedingly continuing his scientific disassembling of his opponent.

Wash found his body moving, leaping up onto the blade-man's broad back, knees clamping on his waist, left arm going around his throat, the right swinging his pint against his temple, as he yelled again. "Jayne! Knife!"

While the glass didn't break, it did meet the guy's skull with a solid clunk, and somewhere in the back of his brain, Wash felt a pang of regret as the fine, dark porter fountained up, splashing over his arm and the sides of his and his ride's faces.

Wash's sudden weight and the unexpected blow staggered the man, and the trajectory of his blade swung wide as he flung out his arms for balance. And the word 'knife' got Jayne's attention, because he whirled, and apparently took the situation in at a glance, because, a wicked grin splitting his face, he hollered, "Little man! Yeah!" at the same time as his fist, powered by the velocity of his turn, landed between his attacker's eyes.

This, of course, snapped the guy's head back, straight into Wash's nose. Pain exploded in the front of his face, tears blinding him as blood gushed over his upper lip. Beneath him, his support structure was collapsing and he shoved himself free, staggering backwards into the surrounding crowd. A hand darted out, grabbing his shoulder to spin him around, and he brought his fists up defensively, although he hated risking his hands. Blinking furiously, he tried to bring his accoster into focus before he got clobbered.

It was with a strange mixture of relief and consternation that Wash managed to resolve the furiously scowling doubled features of Malcolm Reynolds swimming before him.

"No fair two on one," Wash protested, opening his clenched fists into a spread-fingered, placating gesture.

With a disgusted huff, the captain gave him a shake, then after a clipped, "Zoe, get Jayne," began dragging Wash through the throng toward the door. While in the grand scheme of things Wash would have preferred Zoe-draggage, the brief glimpse he caught of her stony, distinctly unamused expression as she dove into the chaotic center of the brawl left him grateful it was Mal's fist in his collar, not hers. Was true the recent amputation of his mustache, spurred by Kaylee's heavily dropped hints, had Zoe looking into his face without active wincing, which was a definite plus. But Wash was pretty sure she would not find the crimson streaming over his mouth and chin and down the front of his flightsuit particularly becoming, never mind the fact his precious bodily fluids weren't clotting in his recently extinct lip adornment.

Wash had managed to get his handkerchief out of his pocket and wadded under his nose by the time Mal hauled him into the street, and shoved him so he was sitting sideways on Serenity's mule's saddle. He bent to peer intently into Wash's eyes, probably checking for concussion. "Two things I wanted. Two." He held up that amount of fingers in emphasis. Wash felt relieved he only saw that many digits. "Sober. Heads down," he growled softly.

"Sober, we're sober," Wash asserted nasally, wincingly pinching the bridge of his nose to slow the bleeding. He didn't think it was broken, but lao tien ye, it hurt. "I'm wearing most of my beer. And the fight just kinda landed in our laps." Was true Jayne had been only too happy to take advantage of that accident. Was also true Wash hadn't lifted a finger to try to stop him. So he wasn't gonna try to divert Mal's wrath by laying the blame on Jayne.

It looked like the captain was about to say more, but the tavern's door banged open and Jayne stepped through, still grinning, followed immediately by Zoe, absently rubbing the knuckles of her right hand.

"Enough horsin' around," Mal declared. "Jayne, you're with me an' Zoe. Wash, want you to take the mule to the warehouse on the corner of Front and Lychee. Guy in the office named Zaid. Tell you're picking up a package for Reynolds. When you got it, go back to Serenity, get a course set for Beaumonde." He shot Wash a jaundiced look. "Can y' do all that without startin' an interplanetary incident?"

Wash nodded mutely, well aware of his in-the-doghouse status, and swiftly shifted to straddle the mule. He got it started with one hand, the other clamping his now sopping red handkerchief over his still leaking nose.

"Little man."

Wash looked up in time to catch the faded blue bandanna Jayne flicked at him. Then the guy was swinging away, long legs allowing him to saunter behind Mal and Zoe, despite the quick pace they set down the street.

The kerchief wasn't exactly clean, but nor was it filthy, and by the time he'd collected the package and returned to Serenity, he'd gotten the bleeding staunched. Kaylee clucked over him, rattling out a litany of treatments for bloody noses, like keys behind his neck and the like. All he wanted to do was wash his face in cold water, which he did, also rinsing out his and Jayne's handkerchiefs. He'd return Jayne's clean next time he got a chance to do laundry. He then took a moment to change his flightsuit before getting up to the bridge to compute a course for Beaumonde.

Half an hour later, Zoe's voice came over the comm telling him they were on and to take them out, quick. He did, and figured the captain was still annoyed with him when he didn't come up to the bridge to watch them lift off. In fact, he didn't see anyone for a couple hours, when he heard a heavy boot stepping over the hatch threshold. He swiveled his chair, and was surprised to see Jayne.

"Uh. Hi."

The guy simply grunted in return, then stood still a long moment, head lowered, peering out at the Black from under his dark brows. Wash had the thought that while he had clearly kicked about the 'verse quite a bit, he hadn't gotten to spend a lot of time on a ship's bridge, looking out at the stars. Mal had explicitly given Jayne full run of Serenity, provided he didn't interfere with Wash's or Kaylee's work, and kept his hands off her system controls. And didn't eat everything in the pantry. That freedom might never been a part of Jayne's employment package before.

When he'd gotten his fill of looking, Jayne turned his head to study him.

"Took you to be the runnin' kind."

Wash squinted up at him through the throbbing ache that was his face. "Apparently I'm not smart enough to be the running kind."

Jayne stared at him, then let out a low guffaw. "Guess y' ain't." He turned to leave, then tossed over his shoulder, "Mal said t' tell ya dinner's ready, little man. Better come quick. I'm powerful hungry."

He clumped heavily down the steps, and Wash lifted his eyes to the Black with a sigh. Three times. That pretty much sealed it. Jayne had settled on a nickname for him. Little Man. Could be worse. Much worse. Pretty much everyone was little compared to Jayne. And "man" was, well, "man." Nothin' wrong with being called a man. Unless, y' know, a person wasn't. But he was. And a nickname, from a guy like Jayne, pretty much meant you were okay by him. Didn't mean they were friends, or that Jayne liked him or respected him. Just signified he accepted Wash as part of his crew.

And that was fine by Wash. It was kinda the tit for the tat of his jumping that blade-man. 'Cause Jayne was Wash's crew. And that's what crew did.

He checked their course and they were good. He spun his chair about, one and a half times, then launched himself stair-wards. He tried sniffing out what dinner might be, but that proved pointless and painful. But as Mal had been on the roster to cook, that might be to the good. He'd sit and eat his dinner, whatever it was, and Jayne might sneer and Mal might still be mad and so a little cool and Kaylee would have interesting engine trouble to discuss and the corner of Zoe's mouth just might quirk up at one of Wash's jokes. So, yeah. All good.