Title: The Lost Hat Tussle 1/1 Author: hisgoodgirl Disclaimer: Joss’s toys, my imagination Rating: PG-15 for strong language Setting: During the series, after “The Message”

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Jayne Cobb was a collector.

The big mercenary had amassed a weapons cache impressive by almost any standards. Stored in the space behind his bed, his armory was protected from prying eyes by an embroidered hanging. On racks he’d welded to Serenity’s inner support frame and bulkhead, he’d hung pistols and rifles and shotguns, daggers and knives and even a short sword. In the center, most prized of all, hung a Callaghan full-bore autolock, ready for some serious action.

Tools of his trade, yes, but more. He’d chosen each one for it’s particular strengths: accuracy, silence, range, damage capacity, even how it felt in his big, callused hands or on his hip. Each he valued for specific and unique reasons, and to Jayne, each had a personality, distinct and individual.

He’d womanized his way through several quadrants of the galaxy, starting with his first fumbling attempts to woo Lucy McKenny while doing chores for her Pa as a youth back on Sunderland. The names he gave his weapons bore testimony to the most memorable of those women. There was Katie and Emma, Betsy and Cassie and Boo, along with many others. Vera, the name he’d given the big Callaghan, reminded him of the big-busted Amazon of a woman he met on Santo who won his admiration by stomping him in a cut-throat poker game and subsequently riding him into the ground over four exhausting but memorable days and nights.

Jayne never had a lot, had never been a wealthy man. The son of a hard-drinking factory worker, he left home young and made his way by his wits and talents: tracking, brawling and marksmanship. It was his rambling life that kept the collecting in check and limited it to a few special categories, like his t-shirts.

There were practical reasons for this. T-shirts were cheap. They were adorned with amusing images or slogans that made opponents tend to underestimate him. They were stretchy and allowed him to move freely. They showed off his beefy, muscular physique for the ladies. They didn’t need ironing and could be washed out in a sink or a creek or a horse trough. He liked how they felt and had a rotating collection of a dozen or so, picking up new ones and cutting down those wearing out, only to ultimately use them as gun rags when they were too far gone.

He also loved hats, having concluded that, apart from shading his eyes when he was sharp shooting, they made him appear even taller and more intimidating and made folk take him more seriously. Most of the time, he wore a battered black canvas drover's hat with a moderate brim and smart, pinched crown. He could roll it up and stuff it in a rucksack or back pocket and it promptly resumed its previous shape.

Somewhere along the way, he’d picked up a jockey’s cap made from tan twill. More utilitarian than fashionable, it fit his head closely and could cover his neck or mouth with the extended ear covers and a band that snapped in front. There was a narrow bill to keep off the glare, and he wore it when the air was dusty or if he needed to disguise himself.

For dressy occasions, he owned a smart black wool felt hat with a rakish brim and low crown that he thought of as his “sportin’ hat”. It had a neat band of grosgrain ribbon and he took great pains to keep it clean and well brushed to impress the ladies. He’d also once owned a dark, broad-brimmed Stetson, until the day a stray bullet ventilated the unlucky headware.

Dearest of all was the yellow and orange toque lovingly knitted by his Ma and mailed out to him as a testimony of her maternal concern. Of thick, vivid wool, the hat was intended for maximum warmth and bore long earflaps complete with tie cords and a perky pop-pom adorning the peak. So touched was the big merc by this tangible evidence of his mother’s love that it never bothered him that a six-foot-four-inch adult man might look a little odd in such a hat. He wore it with great pride, ignoring the snickers and pointed fingers that followed in his wake.

His shipmates razzed him, his enemies razzed him, strangers on the public streets razzed him, but as soon as Jayne found himself in a setting on the chilly side of comfortable, out came his cunning hat.

Like all the items he had gathered to himself, his hat had it’s own special place, where he could readily find it when needed. Top shelf of his clothes locker on the end wall of his bunk, nestled next to his rolled-up long underwear and spare gloves. That was until the job on St. Albans.

* * *

Leave it to Mal to negotiate a job on the coldest inhabited world in the ‘Verse, and that in the dead of winter.

“Have you lost yer ruttin’ mind, Cap’n?” Jayne squawked.

“Mal, that’s crazy!” bleated Wash, and Zoë’s normally impassive face took on an incredulous expression.

“Sir, are you sure you really wanna be tacklin’ a run to St. Alban’s right now?”

Mal bridled up, defensive, his hands grasping his suspenders, jaw tight as he sighted down his long nose at his rebellious crew. “That’s why it’s a great time to pick up this shipment we’re smugglin’. Ain’t much likelihood a anyone noticin’ we’re out and about at 40 below.”

For over a week, the crew groused and grumbled, but Mal made it clear the job was going forward, their protestations not withstanding.

Jayne was on his way to the galley for a bowl of noodles when he heard the sound of soft sniffling followed by a low crash resounding from the engine room. In short order, he found Kaylee hunkered down beside the engine cowling, tears streaking her angry face. “Tian xiz shou you de ren dou gai si!” she cursed vehemently.

“What’s the matter, gal?” Jayne noticed the wrench lying several feet away where she had thrown it. “You gotta be pretty peeved to go flingin’ yer tools around like that. I’m just glad I wasn’t the target.”

Kaylee rubbed her face and looked up at the merc, her eyes filled with a sparking mix of hurt and outrage. “I’m thinkin’ bout killin’ me a doctor.”

The merc raised an eyebrow. “Now that’s a plan, only, how ‘bout you let me do it?” He chuckled to himself. “What did the idiot do now?”

“He thinks I’m fat.”

“Huh? You fat?” Jayne spat out, “That’s fei hua!”

His steel blue eyes were frankly admiring. “Kaylee-girl, one thing you ain’t is fat. Curvy, yes. In all the right places, even. But not fat.” Jayne scowled and clamped his lips together in fury. “What kind of bèn de gan ni niang would say such a thing?”

Kaylee pouted. “Well, what he actually said was that I was ‘sturdy’, but I know gorram well he really meant ‘fat’.”

The merc crossed his arms, his eyes narrowing as he reassured her. “Well, he’s just an idiot. Don’t let him get to ya like that.”

* * *

Several minutes later, Simon Tam was scrubbing down the counters in the med bay when a big hand jerked him around by his shirt and Jayne’s fist found the end of his nose.

“Have you lost your mind?!” the doc bellowed, wiping the rush of fresh blood away with the back of his hand.

The merc rubbed at his knuckles and smiled. “That’s for bein’ an idiot and makin’ Kaylee cry.”

Simon’s jaw dropped as his face clearly reflecting his bewilderment. “What did I do and why are you punching me for it?”

“’Cause you’re stupid and deserved it. Oughtta watch your mouth, pretty boy. Only thing fat around here’s your head.”

* * *

Having arrived in orbit around the icy sphere of St. Alban’s, the captain called his mate and mercenary together. “Zoë, you an’ Jayne might as well get yourselves all bundled up. Soon as Wash sets her down, we’re off the boat. Like to be out in the cold for a bit, and you best dress warmly, you don’t want nothin’ freezin’ off…”

Cursing under his breath, Jayne headed off to his bunk. He’d grown up on a cold, wet, snowy world and had no love for frigid climates. Once down in his cabin, he stripped off the outerwear he had on and started pulling gear from his locker. Two pairs of gloves, two pairs of thick wool socks, and a heavy parka rained onto the futon behind him. He slid into long johns and several additional layers of clothing, topping off in wet-resistant coveralls and then reached into the top of the locker for the warm wool hat from his Ma. His hand found nothing.

“What the fuck? Where’s my gorram hat?” He rummaged around, tossing items onto the deck in his hasty search, cursing under his breath. “Some hún dàn’s been goin’ through my stuff…”

His frantic search was interrupted by Mal’s voice over the comm. “Jayne, I’d take it as a kindness if you’d get your ass up here ma shong so we can do this. Zoë and I are a little overdressed and you’re holdin’ us up.”

Determined to resume the search later, the merc hit the comm button and tersely acknowledged the message. He grabbed his jockey hat and yanked it on, fastening the chin strap and tossed a thick knitted scarf around his neck, then stormed up his ladder and down to the cargo bay. Mal and Zoë stood impatiently, bundled up like snowmen.

“So what the guay took ya so long?” Mal snapped.

“Somebody stole my hat.”

“You got a bunch a hats, as I recall, includin’ that one you’re wearin’.”

“I meant the hat my Ma made me. You know, the yellow one – my favorite. It’s gone outta my bunk an’ that means someone musta stole it.” The merc was clearly pissed. “I figure out who took it, they’re gonna damn well learn to leave my gear alone!”

“Go hwong-tong! You can jabber ‘bout hats later -- let’s just do the thing.” Mal yanked back the heavy door leading to the open airlock and wind-driven snow whirled in around the threesome in a blinding, frigid gust.

Jayne wound the scarf around his neck and face and pulled his parka hood up over his head. “Shit, that’s cold…”

* * *

The shipment was quickly loaded and just as quickly, Serenity was outbound for Bethany. Additional searching had failed to locate Jayne’s beloved hat and his mood was foul. One by one, he cornered and harrowed his shipmates regarding the missing treasure.

“Why in God’s Grace would you think I might have borrowed your hat, son?” Book asked him. “You know my order requires that we wear our hair unshorn and keep our heads bare.”

“I think your hat’s about the sweetest hat ever so why would you think I’da swiped it outta your bunk?” Kaylee was mystified. “I’ll help ya look for it, ‘though,” she cheerfully offered.

“Jayne! Be realistic. Considering how I dress, can you honestly imagine me wearing your hat?” Inara asked incredulously. “Besides," she speculated, "I might ‘get’ something from it.”

“Humph,” Zoë barked. “You wanna die, Jayne? I hate hats. Wouldn’t even wear mine during the war.” She glared at him, her features stony as she got up in his face. “You ever try crowdin’ me into a corner like this again, better plan on singin’ soprano from then on…”

“Shu mu?” Mal shook his head, dumbstruck. “I told you, I didn’t swipe that absurd piece a headwear. I know your Ma made it for you, but you need to just get over it. Most like to left in back on Newhall when you got so drunk.”

Later that day in the galley, Simon dodged behind Mal. “Keep that maniac away from me!” He and Jayne circled the exasperated captain. “I would never wear that hideous hat and I’m not interested in earning your ire by taking it, so just go crawl back into your cave and leave me alone!”

“You better watch your back, doc!” the merc snarled.

* * *

The agitated merc ransacked the ship for River, but the girl easily eluded him, only increasing his fury and frustration. An angry Jayne Cobb was loud and dangerous. As he lumbered around Serenity’s corridors and poked into niches and hidey-holes, slamming hatches and knocking over furniture, his crewmates rolled their eyes and made themselves scarce.

Oblivious to the raging mercenary storming his way, Wash was headed from the bridge down to the cargo bay to see whether Zoë was ready to break for a late lunch. There, on one of the catwalks high above the bay deck, he ran headlong into a mountain of fury.

The hulking mercenary quickly pinned the pilot with his back against the railing, caging him in with a long arm firmly planted on the railing to either side. He shoved his angry face down close to Wash’s startled one and growled, “Whatja do with my hat, little man?”

“Uh…ha… ha…hat?” Wash babbled, his eyes wide with alarm.

“That was the word I used.” Jayne leaned closer.

Wash couldn’t imagine why Jayne was so upset and attempted to diffuse the situation by being playful, a strategy that proved profoundly unsuccessful. He grinned goofily into Jayne’s sullen face and chirped out, “Oh, I took it as a nest for my Triceratops. She’s about to lay eggs and…”

Before he could complete the sentence, the ginger-haired pilot found himself flipped over the rail and dangling in mid-air, suspended upside down some fifteen feet above the cargo bay deck, his ankles gripped in Jayne’s huge fists.

Wash screamed like a girl.

Arms flailing helplessly, he begged, “Oh God, oh God, please don’t drop me! Ye soo, Jayne, what did I do?”

“Somebody took my hat, and I got reason to think you’re the culprit. I done tore this ship apart and interrogated everybody on board, and it all comes down to you, little man.” He gripped Wash’s ankles even harder. “So unlessen you wanna have a close encounter with that deck down there, you best be tellin’ me where you hid that hat.” Jayne’s eyes narrowed and his mouth tightened in a sneer.

Ca-chick…

The sound of Zoë’s ‘mares’ leg’ being cocked filled the resonant space.

“And Jayne, you best be putting my husband down right now, an’ you wanna do it very carefully.” Her voice was flat and deadly.

The big man knew better than to doubt the first mate’s intentions, but he really wanted his hat back, so he stayed put and kept hold of Wash’s ankles.

Wash tentatively wiggled his fingers towards Zoë from where he hung upside down, his gaudy shirt flopped down over his arms, turned almost inside out.

“Hi, Lambie-Toes. Got myself in a bit of a pickle here. Guess you can see that, huh?”

“Yeah,” Zoë nodded, “I can see that, husband.”

Wash looked down at the deck far below him and came very close to fainting. “Yiqi shen luxi...” he pleaded. He’d never studied the cargo hold of Serenity from this angle, and when one got past the terrifying dangle into the void, the inverted view was interesting.

In the tension of the moment, time slowed to a crawl and a flash of bright orange and yellow high near the ceiling of the vast space caught Wash’s eye. “Which hat, Jayne?” he asked, hesitantly.

Jayne glared at Zoë and then at him. “Why, the yellow one my Ma made for me, o’course.”

Wash pointed up at the I-beam, one of three that spanned the breadth of Serenity’s hold and stabilized her sides. “That hat?”

Zoë and Jayne both pivoted, following the line from finger to beam, and indeed, there hung Jayne’s beloved hat, suspended from the narrow steel span by the twisted yarn cords Annalee Cobb had added to help her son secure the headware.

“Sonuvabitch!”

* * *

“Ruttin’ hell, Wash. I’m sorry.” Jayne apologized. “Hey, Zo, how ‘bout givin’ me a hand here.”

Zoë holstered her weapon and scrambled to help Jayne haul a trembling Wash back over the railing. The couple embraced then joined the big merc in staring up at the hat where it hung high above the deck.

“How the hell do you suppose it got way up there?” Wash puzzled, still shaking.

“Not but one person on this boat capable of shinnyin’ way out on that beam to hang my hat there and crazy enough to try it,” Jayne gritted out.

“You’re sayin’ River did this?” Zoë asked.

A small voice spoke up behind them. “Leverage.”

“Huh?” They whirled around to face Simon’s little sister, who stood firmly, arms crossed and a defiant look on her face.

“So you took my hat and put it way out there?” Jayne probed.

“Yes.”

He glowered at the girl. “Well, the joke’s over, so how’s about you get your skinny self up there and retrieve it, dong ma?”

She shook her head negatively. “Nope.”

Jayne reared back. “Whattcha mean ‘Nope’?” he hissed out.

River met Jayne’s glare fearlessly. “Hat stays where it is until you play nice. You call me names and hit Simon, so I took your hat. Leverage. Promise to behave and I’ll retrieve it.” She smiled smugly.

Zoë and Wash exchanged grins and knowing glances. “She’s got a point, Jayne,” Zoë noted. “I guess you could always go after it yourself…”

“No ruttin’ way.” Jayne looked back up at the hat and blanched. “I hate heights. They make me wanna puke.” He held out his hands imploringly, his voice almost whiny. “Come on, River. My mother made that hat. It’s special.”

“Stays there until you agree to behave, Jayne.” Her voice was sing-song, taunting. “No names and no hitting. Promise and you can have your cunning hat.”

“Shit,” he snarked stubbornly. “I ain’t gonna be manipulated by no half-grown homicidal maniac.” Jayne turned and stomped off, leaving Wash, Zoë and River grinning in his wake.

* * *

The hat remained suspended from the beam for almost a week. News of the events in the cargo bay made the rounds among the crew and meals became insufferable for Jayne.

“Got your hat, Jayne?” Zoë teased.

“Is your head cold?” Simon asked.

“That beam must be real warm about now,” Mal remarked.

Jayne slammed down his cup with a loud bang. “Gorrammit, that’s enough! I’ve had all of this fei hua I can stand.” He looked murderously at River, seated across the table next to her brother. “Ain’t right to go stealin’ something made by a person’s mother,” he growled.

The girl smiled slightly. “Isn’t right to hit people or call them names, either.”

Seven pairs of eyes pivoted from Jayne to River and back again to the sullen mercenary.

“I. Want. My. Hat.” Word by word he spat it out.

“A person’s mother wouldn’t approve of hitting or calling names, would she?” River asked with a tilt of her head.

For a moment all was silent as Jayne considered that. In fact, his Ma would have read him the riot act for either offence. At the very least she’d have assigned him more chores and sent him to bed with no supper. He snorted, beaten.

“Alright, then. Whaddaya want me to do?”

River’s dark eyes were sparkling with glee. “Promise. In front of everyone.” She grew more emphatic and leaned toward him. “Promise you’ll stop punching Simon and stop calling me bad names.”

Jayne turned to Mal with a pleading look. “Cap’n?”

Mal chuckled and leaned back in his chair, clearly enjoying his merc’s distress. “You want that hat, best do as the girl says.”

“Ai ya,” the big man sighed. “I’ll stop hitting the doc and callin’ you names. Now can I have my gorram hat back?”

“Promise.”

Jayne took a deep breath and in a voice that clearly cost him the few remaining shreds of his dignity, he muttered, “I promise.”

* * *

The following morning, when Jayne went down to the galley for breakfast, he found his orange and yellow hat, artfully balanced on top of the silver hoop ball that was resting in the center of the table. Using a black marker, someone had drawn eyes, a nose and a bold black goatee on the ball and it grinned back at him.

“Huh.”

He heard a rustle and then a faint giggle from behind the counter.

“Thank you, River,” he said.

“You’re welcome, Jayne,” she answered.

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The End