Disclaimer: See chapter one.

A/N: This woulda got posted earlier, but I got side-tracked by reading nonjon's Browncoat, Green Eyes yesterday (crossover with Harry Potter). It's a pretty entertaining read and it surprised me how well nonjon pulled off the meshing of the two vastly different 'verses. Anyway, on with the show!

Brompton Cocktail

Chapter Eleven

They were due to land on Jiangyin the next day, at noon local time, which translated to somewhere in the neighborhood of five in the evening ship's time. Landing was still just over twelve hours away, and despite the early hour, Zoë was awake. She stood at the foot of the bed she'd shared with Wash, noticing that things had started to become dusty. Always before when she'd screwed up enough courage to face the memories this room held, she'd wound up nearly drowning in his aftershave and the smell of his sweat. This morning, however… All she could smell was dust. The room felt colder than normal, though the air itself seemed unpleasantly thick.

She turned and opened the wardrobe, intent on finding a jacket or a sweater to combat the chill. It didn't even cross her mind to adjust the climate controls for the room. Her eyes landed on Wash's shirts, their riotous color bringing a small sad smile to her face. He had most of them when we met, but that one with the flamingoes on it… he bought that one just to irritate me. It was what? Maybe three weeks after Mal hired him? Yeah, that sounds about right. Memories of Wash played out in her head: Times he'd made her laugh. Times he'd made her angry by trying to make her laugh. Times when it was all she could do to keep up with his twisted, childlike logic. Playing cards. Playing with his dinos. Coming up with more than half the rules for the game everyone played in the cargo bay with the heavy ball and the old hoop dangling from the ceiling and that still didn't have a proper name, only knowing what was being asked about when someone said 'wanna play' and tossed that heavy ball at your head. The way he could keep calm during the tensest of situations, then panic as soon as there wasn't any piloting left to be done.

An odd noise interrupted the flow of her thoughts. She realized with a start that somehow all of Wash's shirts were now folded neatly on the edge of her bed. Except the flamingo one with the splashes of blue and palm-tree prints. That one she was wearing like a jacket. She could almost hear Wash laughing at her. Zoë let out a huff of amusement at herself and pulled off the shirt. She started to fold it and put it with the rest, but changed her mind. She slipped it back over her shoulders.

The strange noise that had interrupted her repeated. Stilling completely, Zoë strained her ears. What was that? When she heard it once more, she realized it was coming from the room next door. I have never heard anything quite that high-pitched come out of Jayne's room before. It almost sounded like the squeaking of a rat. But not quite. Zoë gave up trying to figure out what it might be and climbed into the corridor.

She knocked at Jayne's door, but got no answer.

At some point during the night Jayne's entire universe had narrowed to just his fingertips. It felt as though someone was alternatively frying, flaying, and freezing them, with some added moments of acid-bathing just for kicks. When the pain managed to let up for brief moments and his mind was capable of rational thought, he would invariably ask himself How can somethin' I can't even see hurt like this? He'd been shot and stabbed and shocked and beaten and had bones broken and dislocated and all other manner of injuries done to his personage. Always before, unless there was concussion or blood loss, he'd been able to move. But now? The pain, concentrated in just the pads of his fingertips, was flaring with such intensity he could barely breathe. Not even gettin' racked in the jewels hurts like this.

He didn't hear Zoë knock. Nor did he notice when she punched in the override code and let herself in while saying, "You better not sleep naked, Jayne." He didn't even know he was no longer alone until something barely brushed against the tips of the fingers of his right hand.

Zoë froze at the sound Jayne made. For a moment, she thought it was in response to her switching on his bunk light, but with how tightly his eyes were squeezed shut, she'd be surprised if a supernova could have gotten through his lids. His forehead was wrinkled and his jaw was clenched tighter than his eyes, and since his eyes had lines radiating back far enough they disappeared under his hair, that really was saying something. She was somewhat relieved to note that he did indeed wear clothing to bed – his boxers, black cotton and sprinkled with little yellow smiley-faces, and the t-shirt she recalled him wearing at dinner. Jayne was laying on his right side, his knees pulled against his chest, and his arms tucked close, but his hands were crossed at the wrist and dangling off the edge of his bunk. A mostly-unnoticed observation that Jayne was far more flexible than his size would normally indicate whipped through Zoë's mind as she reached down and laid a hand on Jayne's forearm. The stray corner of Wash's shirt that had caught on his exposed fingers when she'd reached over him to hit the switch for the light fell away as she did so. "Jayne?" His skin was cooler to the touch than she'd expected and she could feel him trembling.

The small stuttery noise that came through his teeth in reply bore no resemblance to language, but it contained enough consonants that Zoë could make a good guess as to what he'd said. Hurts. She straightened and looked around his bunk. She knew that Dr. Baker had given him a painkiller with the other medications he'd received that day on Persephone, but had no idea where Jayne was keeping it. She started by checking the cabinet behind the mirror. All it contained was a straight razor and a toothbrush only just starting to show signs of wear. She moved on to the weird-shaped cubby that pulled out from under the control panel next to the ladder only to be met with Jayne's dirty laundry. Damn it.

Another strange squeaky noise came from Jayne's direction. It made the hair on Zoë's arms stand up. It's not loud enough to warrant the word, but why does that sound like screaming? Picking up the pace a little, she tried the desk next. Success! She grabbed the little black satchel and opened it. Not having had the benefit of the visuals during Dr. Baker's little speech on what each vial was for, Zoë had to pull them out to check the labels, then frantically search her brain trying to see if the name meant anything to her. None of them did, until she got to the white vial. Opianax. More commonly known on the street as simply 'drops'.

Zoë snagged the vial and the injection gun, then turned to Jayne while sliding the vial into the port on the gun. She had to pause as she looked from the dosage-dial to Jayne and back. How much? She shook her head and set the dial to '1'. If it's not enough, I can always dose him again. It's a little harder to fix it if I give him too much. She pushed the tip of the gun against the side of his neck and pulled the trigger.

The sting of the needle almost didn't register in Jayne's mind, but the flooding sensation of prickly heat spreading down his neck did. He had no idea how long it took, but eventually that sensation made it to his fingertips.

Zoë could see the dose she'd given him had some effect, but wasn't sure if it was enough. His face slowly relaxed, followed by the rest of him. After about five minutes, he finally opened his eyes. "Zo'?"

"You alright?"

He uncurled and sat up, trying not to use his hands at all, before answering. "Think so." Peering at his fingertips, he saw that they looked a little redder than normal, like a faint sunburn or steam-scald. "Funny," he muttered.

"What?"

"Still hurts," he replied looking back at her. "Jus' don' care that it does." He blinked, long and slow. "Wha' ya doin' 'ere? I oversleep or sumthin'?"

Zoë shook her head. "No, it's not even six yet. I was up and heard something weird, thought you might need a hand."

He snorted with a smile. "Nah, nee' a pair o'em. Nah jus' one."

If he's this stoned on just a level one dose, I'm really glad I didn't give him any more. "Even if that puzzle of River's is all sorts of shiny, I somehow don't think it was a good idea," she said, ignoring his attempt at humor.

He nodded owlishly. "'S pretty shiny. All 'em fish. Girl learn me all th'names o'em. Proper names, too, an' nah th' sky-in-traffic ones." Zoë figured he meant scientific. Not sure if that's just Jayne or if it's because of the drug, though. "'Er's yella tangs, an' triggerfish, an' damselfish, an' clownfish, an' sea hosses, an' an'…" He trailed off into a yawn.

"Why don't you go back to sleep, Jayne? I'll stop by when breakfast's ready."

"Soun's good, Zo'…" He closed his eyes and Zoë was positive he'd fallen asleep sitting up even before she made it to the ladder.

A/N2: I based Jayne's reaction to Opianax (made-up) off of my own reactions to opiates (all taken quite legally, post-surgery). And before anyone challenges me on Jayne not being flexible – I suggest you watch 'Ariel' again, specifically the scene where Jayne attacks the guards. Only someone that's pretty damn flexible can pull that trick of switching what side their hands are handcuffed on (without taking off said cuffs, of course).

Please lemme know whacha like or don't like about the story. Thanks in advance.