A/N: Written for wesleysgirl in Mal's round at maleslashminis.
My first Mal fic, so no pitchforks. I could use some concrit, though.
There are many words one can hear when regaining consciousness, and Mal had heard them all.
‘Careful, it’s going to be fine’ was the most pleasant one. ‘He’s waking up, hit him again’ was quite probably the worst.
This was the first time, however, when the first word penetrating the haze and the darkness was “Idiot,” followed shortly by “Would you please just hold still?” All said in clipped, annoyed tones of someone who has better places to be and a strong desire to be there.
The words were followed by pressure on his side where, judging from the rapidly increasing pain, he got stabbed by whatever attacked him.
Mal groaned, and moved to look down at his side, ignoring the pain, or rather, trying to.
“Which part about holding still you didn’t understand?” the man asked, voice something between amused and irritated.
“The part where I got mauled by a talkin’ cow with fangs, walkin’ on two legs,” he muttered, twisting to look at the wound.
“Very well. Hold here,” the man told him, and proceeded to rip off a part of his shirt, staining it with blood from his hands. Mal had a moment to take a better look at him, and concluded that, of all the sights to wake up to after being run over by a mutated cow, this was rating pretty high on the scale.
“Come on, we need to get you out of here before they come back.”
Come back? The cows? Mal groaned again, as he was pulled up, and propped against the wall. “Can you walk?”
“Sure I can,” he muttered, deciding then and there that he could, even if he couldn’t. “But first things first. Who the hell are you?”
The man smirked again. “Wesley Wyndam Pryce. Pleased to meet you. Now, if you have no further objections, I’d like to get the hell away from here before the whole clan comes back.”
“Demonic cows,” Mal said again, getting another eyeroll from Wesley.
“Yes. Do I need to repeat the whole thing again?”
“Well, it keeps getting funnier each time.”
Wesley refilled the glasses with possibly the best scotch Mal had ever tasted. Considering he didn’t drink scotch all that much, that is. “And technically, they’re not cows. They are not even from our dimension, therefore there is little chance of even a distant relation... what?” he asked, catching Mal’s gaze.
“You always talkin’ like that?” he asked, and the answering shrug gave him the answer. “It’s a right wonder no one tried to kill you yet, then.”
The moment the words were out, he knew he had said something wrong. Wesley’s face clouded, and his hand unconsciously wandered up to touch his throat. Mal could see the faint bruise there.
Wesley smiled, and it almost didn’t seem forced. “Not for that reason,” he said softly.
“Right,” Mal muttered, wishing for a change in subject. “So, that happens to you often?” He hurried to explain. “The demon cows, spell-breaking, bringing home wounded strangers?”
Wesley gave him a look that Mal couldn’t identify, it would be a glare, only it wasn’t, and the honest smile was slowly coming back.
“Depends,” Wesley said, shifting on the couch, his body relaxing.
Mal grinned. “On the day? Your mood?”
“On how handsome the strangers are,” Wesley said, and just as Mal was laughing at the theatrically overdone tone and expression accompanying the words, Wesley shifted again, leaning in.
The kiss landed at the corner of Mal’s mouth, then, as Mal moved forward, Wesley’s tongue slid against his lips hesitantly. Before any of them could deepen the kiss, Mal groaned, as his movement resulted with a piercing pain at his side.
“Bad timing,” Wesley muttered, pulling away.
“The worse,” Mal agreed. “Stupid demonic cows.”
“They’re not...” the rest of his worth had been cut off by Mal’s finger on his lips.
“Just shut up.”