"Aww, girl, no..."

Why's she do him like this! She should have been good for another hundred miles at least before that blew, get him out of the middle of nowhere and into the middle of ... somewhere.

Mal lays off the gas and drives his girl as easy as he can manage, until the big red hunk of junk pulls all gentle-like into spittin'-distance of somewhere as claims to be a garage. Then she kicks once and rolls over, and he has to trot on his own two feet for the last block-and-a-half, boots slapping heavy on the asphalt.

They can smell burning oil. This one's going to have to stay and get comfortable.

Their eyes roam over the chassis, lingering for a moment on a tarp covering some very exciting looking lumps. "Nice truck you got there."

"Shame about those gaskets - guy like you seems keen on doing your own maintenance, but this one you'd better leave to the pros. Come on, beautiful, let's get you up on a lift."

"Watch it! You ask before you start sweet-talkin' another guy's girl!"

"You want her healthy, dontcha? Settle down and help me get her inside."

"You the boss 'round here?"

He's sizing them up, visibly, taking in calloused hands and sweat-tracks through grease and the muscles it takes to jack up a car or loosen a lug nut.

"Yep."

This man's eyes are lingering on their body a bit longer than they're comfortable with.

"Best you knock off the wandering eyes, friend."

Maybe they'll throw them a bone.

"Do yourself a favor and grab me a flashlight from inside, 'k?"

To (perhaps) his credit, his gaze is sweeping over their hands and their biceps and where they'd carry a concealed gun, not traveling anywhere more intimate.

"Ain't a man got the right to look at what's before him?" he protests, regardless, opening the door and fishing around in the glove compartment for a flashlight.

If they were looking for armaments on them, then they're not going to find anything. Their shotgun is leaned up against the workbench inside.

"Nope. Pop the hood and hand me a 1/4" socket."

"You want a lot, y'know that?"

He tosses them the heavy flashlight from a few yards away, with no regard for sanity or safety.

They ignore his comment and snatch the flashlight from the air effortlessly, tucking it between shoulder and ear as they peer inside the engine cavity. Their nose wrinkles.

"You ever consider not driving her while she's burning oil?"

"Crossed my mind once or twice."

Wrench.

Catch.

"This is going to be an ordeal to repair, you know. Gonna have to strip the whole thing down to check her rings and gaskets. Some quality time." (This last part directed fondly at the truck.)

He puts a hand defensively on the truck, with exactly the attitude of a man shielding the family jewels.

"Serenity don't need all that! Just a quick fix to keep her runnin'."

"You want Serenity to live a long, happy life. The quick fix here will leave her clogging pipes, and coughing and sputtering until she siezes for good. All in all, a pretty bad way to go. So, instead of being Mr Protective Dad over here hurting those you claim to care bout, you're going to help me clean her properly and repair all that's needful. Y'understand?"

"Ain't got the wherewithal to cover all that. Not 'til I get where I'm goin'."

"And where, exactly, is that?" They begin undoing the linkages that hold the gearbox to the main engine body. It's a nasty process, and their hands are covered by oil and soot immediately.

"A customer. Who ain't gonna be mighty pleased if I'm late."

"They ain't here. Feel free to use the phone though. Lower that ceiling harness, would you? Crank is on the wall."

They're pretty sure of two things: this guy likes his truck and doesn't actually want to see her hurt by taking her out too early, and that he can probably deal with whatever consequences of being late are. Unless there's a bunch of fish in the truck bed, which they doubt.

"Yes ma'am."

He goes to the crank.

"What's this fixin' to cost me? I ain't precisely flush at the moment."

"I'm sure we can work out a payment plan. Perhaps after your customer gets his 'special delivery' you'll be in a better place to pay. In the meantime, you can stick around here and help me and Linaea out. Crank up!"

The belts of the overhead winch are firmly fastened around the engine block, ready to rise assuming that they haven't missed a step.

"Awful generous," Mal says, suspiciously, beginning to crank.

They consider for a second whether the man plans to pay them after he's able to drive away, then shrug.

"Me? Not at all. I've got quite a bit of heavy lifting to do around here; I can use the help. And there's isn't a tow service for miles 'sides me, so I don't rightly figure you've got a choice. No use grinding the boot in when a man's already down."

They wince when they see the oil dripping from the underside of the great heavy heart of Mal's truck.

"Besides, it'll be nice to get some steady income for a change."

"Well, can't say but that's a bargain as a man can live with, an' I rightly appreciate it. You just point me in the direction of your liftin'."

"For now you can start by hauling this hunk o' junk," their thumb jabbing sharply in the direction of a beat-up looking V6 on a metal counter, "out back. Looks like I'll need the work space if we want you in and out in a reasonable fashion. It ever occur to you not to drive 'er while her blood drips onto the pavement? If not, better consider it, worried it's more than head gaskets the trouble with her. When you get back you and me are gonna go treasure hunting to see if we can find you a new set of gaskets anyhow."

"Weren't a good time to take a rest break."

He hefts the V6, balancing it on his shoulder.