She stares so long at him, she can feel her eyes blur, the whole canvas dripping and smearing before her, the heat of her gaze wrenching the landscape, twisting and warping his figure, his torso, his girl until it's unrecognizeable.
She's only the painter. She's not supposed to love her toys. They always break, and they never see her with their plastic eyes.
She can't help it. She sees him and her pulse rockets to well above RHR, the circulation in her arteries throbbing and her fingers trace the patterns on her own skin, fingers gripping her arms, her eyelids fluttering in time with her heart.
She tells herself that it is logical- by anthropological standards, her want of him as her mate is justified. She wants a strong, attractive male specimen to impregnate her. It would be foolish of her to not pass on both her highly evolved mental superiority and her attractive and strong physical characteristics to the next generation, and as a physically if not mentally highly evolved male, he is the perfect (and only) object for her hormones.
And she made him bleed.
When she goes and places a bloody palm on his chest, he yells and yells and yells. No one understands. She took his blood, he needs hers now to help. She has to give it back to him. The crew mutters 'suicidal' and 'relapse' and 'dangerous' but they don't understand. She is a fragment, a particle suspended so that they can all stare at her sparkling in the sun and melting in the dark. They don't understand it at all.
He is her normalicy, her antithesis, her exact opposite and he is the only one who will tell her the truth and not hide behind the fear and fake smile of the other cast members. At least his hate is honest.
Even so, she clutches her stomach and gasps when he calls her a "mu gou" and kicks a chair at her.
It's not the chair's fault.
Mal comes later and kneels by her, his eyes kind and firm (as always, except when he's with Inara, then they show that something else that she wants so badly she can taste it).
"Hey, little one. What's your objection with our fine Mr Jayne, huh? Well, 'cepting, of course, that he hates your guts and wants to sell ya to the feds…"
She wraps her arms around him and sobs into his shoulder and she feels his neck muscles shift and tighten in response, the frozen stone of shock, the little crazy's pulled a new trick and I'm feeling a mite uncomfortable, the paralysis and then the melting.
He pats her shoulder awkwardly and she starts to laugh.
"I just wanted to help. I'm not confused. I know more than anyone else. She's just…. I am jumbled. Like the paper of a kaleidoscope. Thrown about until the bruised colors are forced together and shift to fit the mold submissive, except when she explodes."
He raises his eyebrows.
"Now, I am finding it more than a touch horrifying that that there statement made some sense. How bout you tell my why you're feeling thatta way and we can go about fixing it up, hao ma?"
She stands and pats his head because he is a very good captain and father .
"It can't be fixed. Kaylee's at a loss. He only likes those with over developed mammary glands and loose morals. Stupid putains, essayant de voler mon homme loin, comme elles pensent leurs mésanges ont une chance avec lui! Pah!"
She spits on the floor(in the tradition of being French and all) and runs off to find Simon (who will never learn this particular secret, but is endlessly comforting).
"Huh" is all that Mal's capable of at this particular moment.
Inara, sneaking in for tea, looks at him with raised eyebrows.
"Evesdrop much, 'Nara?"
She folds her arms across her chest (and he really doesn't notice, he doesn't…).
"Jayne? Really?"
Mal heaves a sigh. He prefers not to deal with hormonal, temperamental, bat shit crazy teenage girls, especially if they're lusting after his disgusting puddle of an ancient mercenary.
"I dearly hope not."
Inara just smiles to herself and saunters back to her room to paint her toenails and think about this new development, leaving the Captain very irritated and very confused ( and not at all thinking about how her rear looks in that skirt).
(because he doesn't think like that about whores. Right.)