Archive of Our Own ^beta

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I'm not so much known as a thinker. Can't say I blame 'em for seeing it that way, but it's not like I don't have the grey matter between my ears. The way Mal would have you believe it—acting all shocked when he catches me working a crossword puzzle in the mess—I'm nothing more than the rock-solid muscle I've got attached to my arms.

Not that I'm not that, too.

Sometimes I speak before I think—but when I really need to say something bright, things need more time to process. Even I know that.

I find occupying my muscles with a set of weights is a good way to let my mind wander, speculate.

The simple up, down, breathe in, breathe out lets the engine turn over a few times and the only thing I feel is the burn in my shoulders that lets me know when my thinking is almost done.

And then when Mal comes back at me with some smart-mouthed, genius retort, I'll have just the thing figured out to put him back on his ass, all shut up, and thinking twice about his assessment of Jayne Cobb.

I also might finally have an answer to the clue for number eight down: nine letters, a primate thought to be distantly related to humans.

Wasn't too pleased when he pulled the puzzle out of my hands and scribbled in his response.

There has to be another word that fits there besides "Jayne Cobb."

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Jayne ran his hands over her cold skin, cataloguing her contours. Her mouth was pert and black, smooth like silk. He held her with one hand, feeling her power in her weight—a good ten pounds. He looked down her sight, his finger twitching on the trigger; he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Janye," Mal said, exasperated. "Quit fondlin' the liberated merchandise."

"I was just admirin'."

"Right." Mal shook his head. "Stop touching, and I'll let you keep one."

Jayne set the gun back in its straw packing and whispered, "See you in a bit, Christina."

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Her shoulder's soft under his meaty hands. She's too soft to be in the middle of this. Also too drunk. Never should've let her have that third shot of whiskey, but he'd just wanted to see what she'd do. She'd promised a table dance if she got too drunk—maybe "promised" is too strong of a word, but she'd mentioned it as a warning. Jayne just didn't take it as a warning.

Besides, not like he was expecting a raiding party. Wasn't expecting the six ugly thugs carting semi-automatics. Wasn't expecting to face something like this without Vera, or hell, Mal.

"What do we do?" Kaylee's speech slurs, but she's keeping her voice down. The sight of cold metal does a lot to sober her up.

"You do nothing," he grunts. Even recreating in a safe harbor, Jayne has a bowie knife strapped to his ankle and there are plenty enough makeshift weapons in a bar.

"No!" Kaylee says a little too loudly, grabbing his arm. "You'll get hurt."

Jayne's face splits open in a grin. "Likely."

Kaylee throws herself against him, alcoholic breath hot in his mouth, salty lips pressing messily against his. Her arms are nearly limp, but her neck is tight as she pushes her face against his.

A bullet slams into the wall over Jayne's head, the debris dusting over them both and breaking the intimate moment.

"Jayne Cobb!" one of the gunslingers growls. "You come out now!"

Jayne grabs hold of Kaylee's rump with one hand, keeping her close against him, allowing her to breathe against his neck.

"Can you wait five minutes?" Jayne calls.

There's a silence that sounds like confusion and then another bullet hits the wall.

Jayne pushes Kaylee back, handing her an empty bottle. "They come after you, you yell for me and hit 'im hard as you can." He considers a moment before slapping her across the face. "You stay awake, girl."

Jayne knocks the table over, keeping Kaylee shielded behind it. He throws the bowie knife, nailing one of the men in the neck. Launching forward, he's clipped in the shoulder, but tackles the tall one. He wrestles the gun away from the redhead and takes out the two by the door with efficient body shots. The gun jams—"Piece of shit"—and Jayne clubs the leader with the butt of the pistol.

He's hot and dripping, heart pounding into his fingers. The other folk all huddle behind chairs and tables; smells like someone pissed himself.

Jayne pushes away the table and Kaylee's still there, clutching the bottle in her hand. Her hair is sticking to her forehead, her mouth parting just a bit, her eyes comfortably closed, asleep—pretty as perfection.

He hauls her over his shoulder, hears the bottle hit the floor when it falls from her loose fingers. He salutes the barman, throwing over enough coin to cover their tab.

"Couldn't wait five gorram minutes. Never gonna have a chance like that again."

Jayne kicks one of the members of the raiding party as he walks out the door.