A/N Hey guys... still the same situation as before I'm afraid: sooo many plot bunnies bouncing round my head - including Firefly ones - but not enough hours in the day to get them out and muse going off at tangents. So, again, really sorry that this story won't get updated perhaps as often as some of you would like; a situation not helped by the fact I kinda hamstrung myself with this story by setting a criterion that all the chapters run along the same theme! I had to dig deep for this one - it owes itself to two people.
Firstly, Beawolf's Pen who is a lovely, regular reviewer and has given me several prompts. She actually had a full plot outlined for the premise of this one, but I felt (and still feel) that that is her story to tell, so I only took one small part of it... and kinda ran in a different direction. I hope she likes it :)
The second person is an anonymous reviewer who asked me to update with an unbelievably flattering compliment about it being one of the best stories on the site - sadly, that is not true, but the compliment was much appreciated. I'd like to say flattery will get you nowhere but... well... it got you this... ;)
This chapter is set post Objects in Space and pre-BDM.
Hope you enjoy.
Rotation
{Rotation:
1. the motion of a rigid body around a fixed point
2. the movement of the earth turning on its axis
3. regularly recurring succession}
Spinning. Turning. Twirling.
Spirals. Circles. Circuits.
A movement of great beauty when it came to dance
...a total pain in the pì gu when it came to thinking.
Unless of course you're fooling a bloodthirsty, half-sane bounty hunter into believing you've mind-melded with a ship. Then the art of verbal obfuscation came in handy.
The reaction of the denizens was unexpected and gratifying - unifying disparate thought and sentiment.
The glow of their approval kept the shadows at bay. Within and without.
It focused the circles.
But the marching of time had made the warmth dim; the soldiers were divided, disjointed once more.
The waning of her purpose and the scattering of their thoughts made it harder to be present.
Full comprehension was out of reach, but the memory of lucidity was there.
Enough remained to remember
... and go looking for the glow.
The fire suited him.
(He looked better in red.)
Creeping warmth had drawn her to the clearing, where the merc was swigging from a bottle.
She half-expected his colours to cool as she approached - he had chosen to celebrate alone. And when he wanted company, it wasn't her he came to.
But alcohol had blunted his wariness.
He raised his whisky in salute. A gesture that skirted respect, like one comrade to another.
That was new.
It appeared the effects of her victory remained in this quarter, if no other.
She sat on the log opposite him. He blinked owlishly at her through the flames, then took another long pull from the bottle.
...or possibly there was more alcohol involved in the equation than she had first realised.
Whatever the reason, her thoughts were moving in different ways - not quite linear, but the spirals had a purpose.
The giant merc finally surfaced from his guzzle. He peered into the bottle mournfully.
"Ain't no use for an empty bottle."
She decided she didn't like the sadness, no matter how shallow; it dimmed the glow.
"Jayne has found a use for empty vessels six times since she joined Serenity," she pointed out.
When he looked at her, confused, she mimed gripping a hard object and brought her arm down sharply as though on harder heads.
He grinned reminiscently. "Okay that's one use," he conceded. One memory apparently led to another, and his gaze unfocused, flickering over long ago scenes. "Back home, we use-ta find another..."
Images were circling round his head in lazy pirouettes. She resisted the temptation to Read them; the novelty of holding a conversation on almost normal terms was stronger than immediately satisfying her curiosity.
"What other uses were there?" she asked instead.
"Kissin' game." His voice was unusually soft, as if coming from a great distance.
She grimaced. "Why would you kiss a bottle?" She paused. Her mouth formed an "o". "Is that why he doesn't kiss on the mouth? Inanimate objects are more of a physical stimulant?"
Jayne stared at her. "What? No. Crazy-ass moonbrain. You don't kiss the bottle – you spin it."
She blinked rapidly. "I do not understand."
He snorted. It should have been a derisive sound, but it blurred at the edges with something like pity.
"'Course you don't. Bet you ain't never even been kissed before." Perhaps it was pity that made him go on. Perhaps it was whisky. "You sit in a circle and set the bottle spinnin' - whoever it landed on, you hadta kiss."
He drained the last drops of amber liquid and placed the bottle on the ground. Tongue poking out in concentration, he fought the intoxication long enough to muzzily spin it.
The bottle wobbled on its axis as it turned. An imperfect circle; an elliptical orbit.
She held her breath
...and released it.
It had come to a halt.
And its neck pointed at her.
Jayne eyed it with mild surprise. "Well, what do you know? Best get your skinny heiny over here, girly." He slapped his thighs and grinned cheerfully… then lost the battle and pitched over to one side.
Soft snoring permeated the air in gentle spirals. She listened to its music.
It urged her to complete the circle.
She skirted round the fire and sat next to the slumbering merc. Bending forwards, she pressed her lips to his.
She'd only intended the briefest of tastes, a lick of his glow. But the amber staining his lips was surprisingly sweet and she lapped the residue away.
Jayne made a humming noise. His colours were warm and liquid – enveloping her senses like molten honey.
She repeated her action, with a little more pressure, wanting more of that dreamy contentment.
The hum became a groan. A hand came up and fisted in her hair. He still appeared half-asleep, but his lips weren't.
They began nipping, licking, caressing hers. His other hand slid down her side, tucked round her back, then pulled her down so she lay atop him.
Her eyes went wide. From her body's reaction
... and from his.
Drowsy warmth was rapidly giving way to rising heat. Fiery red and searing orange that scorched without burning, made her crackle and blaze.
Years of aridity had left her withered. Life sucked away like wood untouched by rain.
She went up like tinder.
Jayne gave a grunt of surprise. His eyes shot open as she pressed against him, claiming him with lips, tongue and teeth; covering any bit of skin she could with her mark; seeking more of his heat and determined to brand him as he had her.
For a moment he seemed startled, almost helpless beneath her, allowing the onslaught but uncertain how to respond.
Then his arms clamped tight and he rolled her over.
His weight pressed down and she gloried in the sensation, like a storm-tossed ship discovering its anchor.
He answered her fervour with his own. He bettered it, sending her spiralling even higher.
His colours shifted once more, heat increasing further but narrowing down to a single bright purpose.
Her.
She could read his intent without Reading - the instinct that drove him. She welcomed it.
Her hand roved down his body to where the heat was greatest…
The intrusion of another aura was like a dousing of ice water.
A familiar voice floated from behind the trees. Teasing and complaining all at once. She could feel the cool amusement beside him.
Her newly anchored senses warned her this was not a good position to be caught in – that the fallout would be worse for him than her.
She pushed off a dazed-looking Jayne and came to her feet. He licked his lips and reached for her in soundless protest, but his hands slowed, then fell by his side, as Wash and Zoë came into view.
Zoë raised an eyebrow. "You takin' a dirt nap down there, Jayne?"
Wash's glee was writ in large letters above his head. "What's the matter, big guy? Local liquor proving too much for ya?"
Jayne bared his teeth.
She wasn't sure how much he remembered.
Recollection was burned into her brain. Branded on her psyche.
He would look at her with a crease between his eyes, half-formed thoughts swirling around him. Fractured sensations he tried to piece together.
One time she thought she caught him staring at her lips.
The heat was still there but uncertain. Unfocused.
The kindling had been scattered; it needed gathering.
He, too, needed an anchor.
So she waited.
When the tap came at her door she was unsurprised.
The bottle he held was empty, but his eyes were sober.
He held it out to her.
"Fancy a drink?"
fin
Glossary:
pì gu - ass