A/N: OK, and this is the point where you all decide that this has gone too far and that I'm a complete psycho. Sorry.

All I have to say is that there will be more Rayne in the next chapter.

Warning: This is now rated M… and for a reason, dark themes and adult situations, people.

Disclaimer: I own Adain, … nothing else.

It hadn't been his usual kind of job; too messy, too visceral, too likely to draw attention. He would use brute force in his dealings with guards and underlings on a regular basis, they were the sort of victims on whose bodies cuts and bruises would not be questioned in the same way they would be on any of his proper marks.

He liked slow, unpredictable, untraceable… he mostly worked with poison; most of his kind did.

But Sandersen had called for something different; something that would not go unnoticed the way his usual jobs did. His marks died of 'heart attacks', 'strokes', or 'sleep induced asphyxiation'. Adain was good with poison; and what did it matter in the end, as long as they were dead?

Not so in Sandersen's case; his instructions had been clear: "send a message"; and he had.

He'd let him fuck him first, too, just to allow himself to drag up that dark bloody lump of a memory, to let it fuel him, to take away any pity or humanity that might be left deep inside him.

Sandersen had not been directly involved in the attack on Adain's home, had not been one of the men to break down the door, murder the servants, drag his mother, his two baby sisters and himself into the large dining room to repeatedly rape all four of them on the newly polished mahogany table. The smell of lavender and lemon made him retch to this very day.

His sister Ella had been thirteen, Sara merely eleven; neither of the two had survived the ordeal. He and his mother had… in a manner of speaking.

He'd been sixteen, old enough to fight, yet he hadn't been taken outside and shot with the other men; he could still hear their words: "pretty like a girl… 't be a waste".

They'd been mercenaries, army drags, specially selected for the job.

Sandersen had not been directly involved, none of the big shots had; they'd simply signed the papers, passed around information, infiltrated the household, planned and plotted, set everything in motion, waited for the opportune moment.

His father had been a great man, a man of convictions, of integrity, a man who inspired fierce allegiance in his men. General Warren had been core educated, influential and wealthy, and when the Alliance had made a claim on Shadow, he'd done the honourable thing, and had put everything on the line to side with the Separatists. It was what was best for the people, personal wealth and influence be damned.

And so he'd returned form a briefing to find his son, bleeding and sobbing, hunched over the dead bodies of his two daughters, when he'd made his way to his and his wife's room, he'd found her hanging from one of the old fashioned ceiling beams she'd instead upon when they'd planned the house; Sara had not even been born then. He'd taken his rifle and had shot himself; apparently one broken child had not been enough to keep him in this 'verse.

Three days later Serenity Valley had fallen. Sandersen had been a good little mole and had passed on vital strategic information, had done his bit. With the Separatist Army headless and in disarray, the Alliance's victory had been little more than a final nail in the coffin.

One of his father's oldest servants had found him, crazed and half starved, a week after the incident. The old man had been stationed at Serenity, awaiting his father's return, when things had fallen apart, he'd come to bury the dead. What he'd found was worse, what he'd found was Adain.

He'd done the only thing he could think of under the circumstances, he'd passed him on to a Companion House on Shion.

He'd mended slowly, never healed. The shame he felt at being violated was nothing in comparison to the shame of not having been able to protect his sisters. They'd done this, not because it was necessary, because it was part of winning the war, they'd done it simply because they could.

He found out about the Underground soon after, found out that while the Alliance might have won one war, that there would be others; and this had given him the strength to stay alive.

There were a few like him, most of them women; Companion's who were trained and recruited in order to do the Underground's dirty work. The Alliance liked their assassins to be fervent believers, the Underground liked them with nothing left to lose, at the end of the day, it mattered little, where there was a war, there was need for their kind.

One of the others had asked him once why he took male clients, considering what had happened to him. He'd simply laughed at her.

How odd to think that she'd feel better if he'd chosen female clients, thereby choosing female marks, as if having real sex with someone before killing them was actually less disturbing.

And so he'd let Sandersen fuck him, his sweaty belly and piggy grunts doing quite nicely by way of stoking his rage. He'd had ground support of course, had everything set up, so before he'd allowed the darkness to swallow him whole, he'd kicked Sandersen off him and lunged for his bag, 'carelessly' left beside the bed. He's chosen his weapons carefully for today: his father's short army dagger and a longer, curved blade he'd taken off the wall of one of his more prestigious marks. He'd dropped one of them… oh how careless, and had allowed the panting and completely dazed Sandersen to take a few swipes at him. The man had been so useless, he'd had to meet the blade halfway by extending his arms, making sure the gashes would look realistic enough. The flabby arms of the other man did not really have enough strength to cut deep… so much the better. He'd wrestled the blade back out of the fat man's hands and had allowed his memories to engulf him.

He'd never told him his name, never informed him of why he had to die the way he did… at least the second he was sure he knew. He'd simply roared his anger and fury as he'd sliced him open like the stuffed pig that he was. When it was done, he'd collapsed, sobbing in earnest.

Reymos was first to arrive. He made short work of the blood trail to the window, the outside evidence already set up by Mrs Lee, who joined them a few moments later.

"You alright?" She looked at him rather quizzically, as if she thought he was a rather sorry excuse for an assassin, but he nodded. This had been part of the plan, you cannot fake mental shock like this, and he had his own little supply handy whenever he needed it. This way they could test him, and he'd come up clean.

"We're ready. I'll start the alarm." She simply told him as she carelessly dipped her hands in the pool of blood. Raymos threw their fabric bound brief into the flames inside the gaudy fireplace, the frolicking nymphs carved there, taking on a sinister quality as the paper burst into bright oranges and reds.

The room was milling within a matter of minutes, odd to think that there had been so much noise before but nobody had seamed to care. Then Adain remembered that little detail in the brief that told him Sandersen like to make them scream, and he closed his eyes for a moment. He still had not been able to stop his sobbing, his fingers were tracing patterns on Sandersen's cheeks and it took him a moment to realise that they were letters:

"E…L…L…A……S…A…R…A……E…L…L…A" over and over again.

Suddenly River was there. Looking at his handy-work, then back at him, she gave him the answer to the second question:

"Sometimes he felt guilt." He'd known why he'd died, maybe had even known who he was.

And then River was gone, carried off by her mercenary.

Adain did not like mercenaries, but he was able to tell the difference between the kind who'd broken into their home, and the kind now bouncing River off his shoulder… but still.

And then she was there, all solid strength and earthy smells, and she soothed him, wrapped her arms around him and sang to him. And the darkness fell away; just like that.

***

He woke in the infirmary, his arms bandaged, weaves in place. This too was according to plan, he'd known they wouldn't leave him behind, would take him back to Persephone with them. None of them would question his involvement in Sandersen's death, well… nobody except River, and she wouldn't really question anything; she'd simply know.

Simon was beside him now, speaking soothing words, injecting another dose of whatever it was that kept his thoughts nicely muffled. Looking over to his other side he saw Zoë, book in hand, looking like she had been caught, clearly not comfortable with him knowing that she hadn't left his side. He smiled. She looked startled.

He closed his eyes again; when he awoke a second time he was alone and in his quarters.

He sat up carefully, noting the rather odd little thumping in his head, and tested whether his legs would carry him. Apparently they would. He slipped on one of his more substantial robes and made his way to the showers.

He never really felt clean anymore, but hot water soothed his mind. He relaxed into the heat, allowing the tension to ease out of his muscles, taking a few deep breaths. It was just as well not all jobs went like this one; he doubted he'd be able to handle it.

Making his way back from the shower, he decided some tea might do him the world of good, and not having encountered any of the crew so far, he jumped a little when he found Zoë sitting at the kitchen table, her rifle laid out in pieces before her.

"What ya doin' up so late? Ya should be restin'" She told him. Shaking his head, he indicated that he had no idea what time it was.

"Why are you up, then?" He moved over to the stove, beginning preparations.

"'Couldn't sleep." She told him in a way that made him think she'd just shared some special secret with him. So he asked:

"Does that happen a lot?"

She simply snorted and shrugged.

"That's a yes then… Wash?" He asked it gently, like he was worried he might scare her back into those fortified walls of hers.

That was the thing about Zoë, all the loss in her life had made her strong, hard, tough, not broken like him, but solid. She must have been that way long before Wash found her, all strength and no give. That's why she liked him like a child, helpless and scared; it was the only way she could allow herself to be just a little bit soft. Maybe that had been why she'd allowed Wash in, from what the others had told him he was, on first glance, nothing but an overgrown boy. He'd never known anyone like Zoë, she hadn't built walls around an ever more fragile core, she'd solidified inwards, layers so thick it became hard for her to see herself, never mind allow others to do so. He'd manipulated her into letting him in, he knew that, but after that first conversation, the one where he'd been overwhelmed by his need not to lie to her, he'd become greedy, wanting to poke further, wanting to scratch at that first solid layer of hers, to see what precious stones had formed beneath.

He was not a fool. He did not have urges the way nature had intended, too many memories clouding his instincts, but he was not ignorant to the fact that Zoë's presence had a very simple effect on him, one he'd almost forgotten about, not thinking himself capable of it any longer.

And some of it was complicated; like her pain and her overwhelming will-power in the face of it, fascinating him in a way he couldn't quite place, as if she had something he wanted to possess, as if she could somehow make him less broken by extending that tiny granule of softness cased in all that strength towards him.

And some of it was so very simple; like the fact that she was beautiful, in ways he could not quite describe, so very different from that fragile ethereal quality he possessed himself, all warmth and force, where he was grace and elegance. And the fact that she had granted him glimpses into her soul, stolen from her by his deceptions and lies, made him giddy with joy and furious with self-loathing.

She looked at him then, that clear and honest quality in her eyes, and he knew she was weak now, allowing him to see it again, and he wanted to smile and cry all at the same time.

"Not really, just thinkin' on all the things that are out there, ready to hurt n' maim an'… the kind that got Wash are just one of 'em…." She trailed off, looking around her as if she could see through the metal walls, counting her charges, her family.

'I'm one of those things' he thought 'but I won't hurt them, I promise.'

He slid into the seat next to her, placing a cup between the barrel and part of the trigger mechanism before her. He could smell her scent, remembered how it had brought him back to sanity a few days before.

"So you stand guard?" He asked, and then reached out to stroke his hand over the soft curls of her hair, expecting her to push him away. She merely took a deep breath and shook her head:

"Dumb, huh?"

"No."

And he knew she only allowed him to touch her because she thought he was weak, and hurt, because he had somehow managed to fool her into thinking that he was another one of her little ones, needing her protection, needing her strength. He knew that she was only comfortable around him because she thought he would not judge her because he needed her too much, depended upon her. And he knew it was more lies and deceptions, but he did not care. He leaned forward and placed his lips on hers, half wanting her to pull back in revulsion.

But she didn't, she opened her mouth just the smallest bit, and when the taste of her mingled with her scent and that tiny little moan she gave, part shock, part guilt, part need, he abandoned all rational thought, pulled her off her chair and into his lap, and deepened the kiss.

He knew what a pity fuck was, and he knew without the shadow of a doubt that that was what she thought they were doing. He wasn't certain if she was clear about who pitied whom, but he knew that that would be her way of rationalising it in the morning. But he didn't pity her, and the frantic way her hands were clawing at his robe and tangling in his hair, sure didn't make it seem like she had only tender comfort on her mind.

She moaned low in her throat when he kissed her neck, gently bit the skin where it met her shoulder, feeling the tendons tense beneath his teeth. His robe was open by now, and she had the definite advantage where clothing was concerned, so he shoved the pieces of her gun off the table, teacup clattering to the floor in the process, lifted her onto the wooden surface, and forced her to lie back. This way he'd get better access at her laced up waistcoat. She leaned back on her elbows, looking up at him, and he hurried to capture her lips again, just so she wouldn't be able to look at him and change her mind.

Her fingers were gently scraping his scalp as he undid her waistcoat and shirt, he was a little too rough with her undergarment and it tore, but she simply gave a small whimper as the piece of clothing fell away an left her breasts bare. He kissed the small dip at the bottom of her throat first, making his way down towards the swell of her breasts slowly, gently, intent on not startling her, but when he took her left nipple in his mouth, allowing his tongue to tease it, she gave a low little growl and a sigh. She needed this just as much as he did.

He moved higher again, kissing her mouth while working on her britches, his tongue gliding over hers and making him shudder, but he had to focus, no time to lose now. They were both breathing heavily, and when he pulled down her trousers and her remaining underwear and spread her legs, he should have asked her if she was sure, if she really wanted this, only he didn't, he knew what the answer would be, he couldn't allow her to think now. So, he'd held her steady, there beneath him, put himself into position and had pushed inside; and she'd given a cry like an wounded animal, equal parts blissful relief and guilt.

He was rough with her, his own need to feel, and taste her, to forget himself, leave this shivering mess that was his mind behind, took over, but she didn't seem to mind, her low little cries of pleasure echoed off the mess walls and her pants ghosted over his damp skin. He licked the sweat off her shoulder and sank his teeth into her soft flesh, this time hard enough to break the skin. She growled slightly and raked her hands down his back.

When she began to shiver and he knew she was close, he grabbed her wrists, held them to the table above her head and thrust even harder, her cries began to bleed into each other, and when she arched off the wooden surface with one final moan, her heat and softness clenching around him, he followed her into oblivion, giving his own cry of release deep in the back of this throat.

They lay there, panting, stunned, not looking at each other. He stood first, grabbed his robe and put it on. She sat up, breathtaking in her dishevelled beauty, and opened her mouth to speak. He raised his hand to stop her; he knew the question already.

He could not bear to hear her ask if Inara had paid for this, so he left her there, on the kitchen table; when all he wanted to do was crawl inside her and stay there forever.

A/N: I'm still practicing writing smut, (hey, apparently they give out awards for worst sex in proper published fiction) so feedback would be really welcome. Well, if you people aren't too busy shaking your heads going "sick, man, that's just sick…"