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BLUE SUN ROOM FAN FICTION - GENERAL
Jayne’s up late, cleaning his gun, and can’t help appreciating a late night visitor.
CATEGORY: FICTION TIMES READ: 1395 RATING: 9 SERIES: FIREFLY
Handle With care
Rating: PG-15, adult references.
Characters: Jayne, Kaylee
Setting: On Serenity, pre-series
Disclaimer: All belongs to Joss. I got nada.
Word Count: 1,176
A/N: Cross-posted from my LiveJournal. Reader comments are very much appreciated.
HANDLE WITH CARE
Once Serenity has cleared Juno’s turbulent atmo and is headed out for Three Hills, Wash places the ship on autopilot and everyone turns in for some hard-earned shut-eye. Everyone except Jayne, who can’t settle in until his weapons are cleaned and ready for their next call. It’s an old habit that has served the big mercenary well through the years.
Jayne loads a battered canvas bag with the things he needs: rags and swabs and gun oil, wire brushes for removing old gunpowder residue and his whet stone. He slings it over his shoulder, leaving his hands free to help him climb the rungs of his ladder. He stands for a moment in the passageway, listening to the familiar creaks and whispers of Serenity, then turns and heads for the ship’s common area. Moving quietly, he sets down the bag and takes out an old towel that he spreads across one end of the big oak dining table. Satisfied with his workspace, he draws his side arm and lays it on the towel before heading into the galley.
He’s powerful thirsty so he fills his blue and white enameled cup two-thirds full of Kaylee’s homebrewed hooch before carrying it back to the table. A woman who can fix things and make booze on top of looking pretty damn cute – there’s something to be said for that, he concludes, realizing that he’s increasingly attracted to the young mechanic, not that much is likely to happen. Mal’s made it abundantly clear the girl is off limits. What a waste, Jayne thinks, as he takes a swig.
He smiles fondly down at his pistol. She’s saved his life many a time. He drags the lamp nearer to his work before sitting down in Mal’s chair. The merc carefully disassembles the revolver, arranging all of the separated parts in a very specific array, and then begins to clean and polish them with all the focus and deliberateness of a man making love. He clamps the tip of his tongue between his lips and his skilled hands turned each component under the light, steel-blue eyes studying each part.
At the sound of soft footsteps, he looks up from the pistol. A sleepy-faced Kaylee wearing a snug T-shirt and little knit shorts wanders down the steps from the passageway into the common area, yawning.
“Woke up an’ couldn’t git back to sleep,” she says. ”Thought I’d make a cup a tea an’ put a little milk in it to help me.” She smiles at him. “Can I fix somethin’ for ya while I’m at it?”
“Nah, I’m good.” He nods at his mug. “But thanks.”
Kaylee asks, “Cleanin’ your gun again, huh? Seems like you do that a lot.”
He keeps his eyes focused on what he’s doing. “Yep. Clean gun’s a lot less likely to blow up in your face. Not so different from you always tinkerin’ on the engine. Ya want something to work good, you gotta take care of it, right?”
“That’s true enough,” she agrees. “My pa always told me, ‘Take care of your tools, they’ll take good care of you.’”
“Your Pa must be a wise fella,” Jayne observes, still intent on getting the last residue from the gun barrel.
Kaylee fills the kettle and puts it on the heater, then turns back to her food locker to get the tea. For some odd reason, her locker’s on the top row, forcing her to reach on tiptoes to dig around for the tea she wants. The stretch makes her shirt and those tight little shorts ride way up and Jayne cranes his neck to savor the view. When she turns back around, he covers quickly by standing up and pretending to dig through his bag for something.
In a moment, the kettle whistles shrilly. Kaylee drops a teabag into the mug she’s chosen and pours boiling water over it. “Sure is quiet this time a night, ain’t it?” she asks, leaning forward on the counter as her tea steeps, the u-neck of her shirt flashing Jayne a nice view of her cleavage.
“Yep.” He glances up, only to take a deep breath. Then he goes back to digging in the bag and stalling for composure.
Kaylee dunks the teabag up and down until satisfied the tea has steeped long enough. She fishes out the tea bag with a spoon, then adds sugar to the dark, fragrant brew. When she bends over to retrieve the soymilk from the chiller, it’s Jayne’s turn to rise up on tiptoes, peering over the counter to watch that adorable bottom until she starts to turn back around.
“Ain’t got enough light to do this, proper,” he grouses and pulls the lamp closer, covering again.
She gives him one of those ‘You ain’t foolin’ me’ looks and smiles, then takes her mug of tea and quietly heads back to her bunk, feeling his eyes on her the whole way.
When the hatch has closed behind her, Jayne lets out a low whistle. “Damn, girl!” he mutters, aware of the tightness of his trouser fly and the ache in his groin. She’s definitely damaged his calm and then some. He quickly reassembles his revolver and holsters the weapon with a gesture as rapid and familiar as his breathing. Satisfied, he gathers up his rags, tools and supplies, returning them to the old canvas bag. One final long swig and his mug is empty. With the old towel over his shoulder, he slings the bag onto his back and heads back through the darkened, quiet ship to his bunk.
Jayne softly toes the door chute open and climbs down the ladder, closing it behind himself. A soft light at the head of his bed gives him plenty of illumination to store away his gear. Stifling a yawn, the merc unbuckles his belt, heavy with the tools of his trade, and hangs it on a peg he’s welded to the brace above his bunk. He sits down on the edge of his futon and props one size 14 boot on a cartridge box, unbuckles his gaiter and unlaces the boot, then pulls it off and sets it neatly to the side with his sock tucked in the top. He scratches the back of his neck, then removes the other boot, placing it beside its mate. With a deep sigh, he lies back on his thin, lumpy pillow and tucks his hands behind his head. On the bulkhead above him, Vera gleams dully. The perfect woman, he thinks with a smirk. She does not judge him. She asks no questions. She never interrupts.
His eyes flick across to his bunk hatch and he thinks of the girl asleep in the compartment across the corridor from him, the girl who teases him, who asks lots of questions, who makes him consider things he’s rather avoid. The girl who damages his calm.
His hand slips down to wrap around his hardening cock. You want something to work good, you gotta take care of it, he thinks.
Thursday, October 2, 2008 2:34 PM
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