They were drunk the first time.
Back from a job, all breathing and accounted for and the coin paid, but the job only mostly legal and went not-smooth, which explains the hard burn and the lack of inclination to amuse themselves dirt-side. Kaylee now in the engine room, pampering her girl for a job well-done, and the boat on auto-pilot, Wash pampering his girl for a job done, period, and there's the two of them at the kitchen table with a bottle of engine hootch. Shot by shot, goes down rough and then a little smoother (smoother than the job, anyway), and there's stories and speculation, 'cause it's times like these Jayne is most likely to wonder why Mal took him in, and Mal is most likely to tell him (but doesn't, and it's not what you think).
So there's drinking, and Mal's tipped back in his chair, and the look he gives Jayne is enough to get him to follow when the chair thumps forward and Mal makes a show of stretching his arms and rolling his shoulders ('cause Jayne ain't stupid, he's lived this long, right?) but only says, "Gettin' late."
They stop at the bunk, and Jayne goes down first, which is good, 'cause he's there when Mal loses his footing on the ladder and would've fallen on his head, 'cept for Jayne catchin' him. Mal rights himself carefully, looks around.
"This my bunk?"
"Yeah."
"Oh."
Mal shrugs, drops his suspenders and starts unbuttoning his shirt, gets two undone before Jayne puts a hand on him, reaching for the third.
"Jayne?"
"Yeah?" Jayne stills, listens for the voice in his head, the one that sometimes tells him to duck or where to shoot or advises him about gettin' out now, with his gowan still intact.
But Mal don't say stop, just "You could be seein' to your ownself," and then his hands are on the gunbelt Jayne's still wearing, always wears 'cause it's his job to wear it, until Mal unbuckles the belt and drapes it carefully over the chair - wouldn't want to drop Binky on the floor. Which is when anybody's hands start going anywhere, Jayne unbuttoning Mal's shirt, Mal pulling Jayne's T-shirt up over his head (and don't he look shuai with his hair all ruffled up like that).
Hands touch skin, and there's a moment where time stretches thin, then snaps back to skinnin' out of pants and skivvies and xie-xie ni Kwan Yin, Jayne does wear them, 'cause when you ain't been with a man in a handful of years (partly 'cause you lean toward women, partly 'cause a man's gotta be somethin' special before you'll even look), you don't rightly want to see it all at once.
Or maybe you do, 'cause soon as Jayne sees a chance, he drops Mal's skivvies to the floor, getting his first good look at a body he knows to be deceptive - lightly muscled, but Jayne's seen him end a fight with a fist where he would've used a gun. Or maybe a knife. And he's got three inches height and maybe 50 pounds on Mal, and still don't know if he could take him in a fair fight, which might be a thing worth knowin'.
A quick turn, and Mal finds himself on his bed, on his back, and Jayne's still - no, they're gone now, on the floor with the rest of their clothes, and Mal suddenly thinks on whether he's swept his bunk lately, which is the last intrusive thought he has before Jayne's rough hands start mapping the scars that start at his hairline, meander down his neck and shoulders, drift across chest and belly before leading a merry chase along his legs, ending at a jagged line around his ankle.
Jayne licks along that one, and Mal might've flown off the bed but for the arm thrown across his legs, and is Jayne laughing? Laughing against Mal's calf, then nipping along the inside of his leg, calf to knee to the crease between hip and thigh, wondering how it is that a man's jiba could be so pretty (hell, he's always thought his own was pretty) while Mal's thinking that if Jayne don't get to the serious touchin' soon, he may resort to violence - probably ain't much of an idea as ideas go, 'cause Jayne's got three inches height and maybe 50 pounds on him, all hard muscle, and Mal's pretty sure he couldn't take him in a fair fight.
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