Summary: A kind of “what if” involving Jayne and some late nights.

Rating: PG-13 (for some language and references to adult situations)

Disclaimer: Firefly is copyright FOX, Mutant Enemy, et. al. No infringement is intended by this story, and no profit is being made from it.

Archive: Please do. Just drop me a line first to let me know where it’s going.

Author’s Note: It’s been awhile since I’ve written any fanfic (or, at least, it seems like it’s been awhile), but this little vignette just had to be put down and no power in the ‘verse could stop it. Hope it pleases.

Feedback would be right kind of ya. If you could spare a comment or two, I’d be much obliged.

***

He didn’t mean for it to happen like this.

Truth be told, he didn’t mean for it to happen at all. Skin to skin. Lips to skin. And then her tongue… He knows this one and doesn’t stop.

Sour grapes. Lemon rinds. Preying Mantis.

His heart speeds up just like it’s supposed to. The words that come to mind, he sometimes thinks, are all hers. They must be. He isn’t crazy. She’s the crazy one. Her.

Turtledoves. Cataracts. Scarecrow.

But he must be crazy for letting this go on.

No. The man with the gun is never crazy, is he? The man with the gun is always the sanest one in the room. It’s been his philosophy so far, and won’t stop being now. No gun; no telling.

So he explains it to himself when no one’s looking. He’s not good at the “explaining things” bits of life, but that’s ‘cause life usually makes sense to him. Sense in one-way or another. Like guns. Now they make the most sense. Guns and muscle mass.

But he explains it to himself as best he can. ‘Cause it’s something to do while he’s lifting weights. ‘Cause he needs this to make as much sense as everything else, even if it really don’t.

Cherry lips. Talking heads. Sunset.

He figures it’s like this: Midnight and the “floating in space” part of space travel is finally getting to a few of ‘em. Getting to him. He could sleep through anything- and does- but every once in awhile he remembers that there’s no way off this ship except through the barrel of a gun and it bothers him enough to stay awake.

He don’t like these people. He’s convinced he don’t like a single ruttin’ one of them. But he’s stuck in a tin can with ‘em anyway, and it was all his own doing.

That, he figures, is enough to make a man not sleep every once in awhile.

Shaving cream. Celery. Engine grease.

Midnight and he’s the only one up and about. Cleaning his guns. His knives. His boots. Whatever the fuck he can. He hates things too clean. He spends the first half of the night shinning, and the next half scuffing.

Here’s how it is, he thinks: Midnight and everything’s all dark-like. Pitch black in some places, but lit well enough in others, but just giving the feeling of nighttime as much as a pile of bolts can.

And there’s this little girl coming over to him from out of nowhere.

He emphasizes this part more than any other.

Lighting bolt. Chopsticks. Good luck.

She comes to him.

He never once forced nothing. Not once. And he sticks by this thought, and he ties every other one to it. Specifically, the one about him not being the crazy one.

He knows who’s the crazy one on this ship. The Cap’n and the pilot, and maybe the shepherd too, they all compete for the title, but he’s goddamned certain who it really belongs to.

This little girl.

She comes to him. Knows when he’s up- and he can’t figure how- or else she’s just always awake anyway.

Bed sheets. Brandy. Spider web.

Coming closer and suddenly there’s that soft skin against his palm. Young skin. He doesn’t know what’s happening, but his body remembers it for him. And something in him reacts before he has time to understand that he shouldn’t let this go on.

He’s not a good man. Maybe not a bad man so much as just not good. And he knows it. Always has. Likes it. But this is different. Different in that way that makes him throw up some mornings after, and fire a round of bullets more than he has to others.

‘Cause this might just make him a bad man.

Laser beams. Cardboard. Sugar.

The words that come to mind aren’t his. This is another thing he’s convinced of, and that he explains to himself as often as possible.

It’s a rush. She touches him and he can hear things. A messy jumble of nothings. And nothing he ever wanted to hear neither, but a rush all the same. And maybe it’s the part he likes the best, really, but won’t ever say it. Not aloud. Not in his head.

This is how it is, he explains: It’s that weird psychic thing. She puts those words into his head. Uses some mind game on him. When her skin hits his, so do her thoughts.

And maybe he’s just grasping at straws here- and it sure as hell feels like it during the day, when he’s walking around the ship like he was all just fine and dandy as ever- but in the middle of the night it’s true. During the act, he feels it like a certainty that he hasn’t felt in years.

Her mouth on him. Her wide, round eyes looking up into his, then closing. Freeze-frame the moment. Her hands. Her lips. Her waist. All of it touching him.

She enjoys his muscle mass, he thinks. ‘Cause she smiles when she reaches those parts that stand out like he was some Mr. Universe. She smiles and embellishes a little around these parts. Takes her time. He flexes out of instinct. Out of gut reaction to whatever she’s doing with her hands. And she almost giggles.

Condensation. Water falls. Vanilla.

Things he has to decide again, each day: She came to him. He isn’t the crazy one. They’re her thoughts he thinks when her mouth’s on him. It all makes sense.

Still, some mornings he can’t keep down his last meal. This part, he doesn’t explain. Doesn’t need to. Doesn’t want to. Just heaves it all up at the memory of soft flesh. Young eyes.

Tiger lily. Canine. Pomegranate.

He didn’t mean for it to happen. Not like this. Not ever. This little girl. Crazy little girl.

But she came to him. Mouth open. Eyes open. Hands…

Here’s how it is: Midnight. Sour Grapes. Lemon Rinds. Cataracts.

He must be crazy for letting this go on like it has.

Must be a man without a gun.

The End.