I warn you people, angst. It's addictive. Plus, I'm kind of a sadist who likes to break peoples' hearts. Including these characters.
Disclaimer: Oh, god, they're so not mine. Really, this is why.
Rating: R, I guess, for darker themes and for the fact it gets a little naught-tay.
Comments: Wow, two in one day. I guess this one needed to be written.
Feedback: It's like crack, it really is. I'm addicted. Comment or email: wily_one24@yahoo.com.au
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pssst... look what andraste made for me!

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1. , 2. , 3. and 4. . *** Part Five: “You know what else?” His words are slurred and he’s past caring anymore. “Scars, women like scars.” He raises his mug, drains the last of the whisky, then lets it fall back to the table. Mal and Zoe are long gone, back to the ship. They’ve left the babysitting to Simon, a bit of a bad choice from both of them, but it’s an even poorer choice for the two left behind. “Jayne?” Simon looks all manner of uncomfortable sitting in a bar like this, surrounded by people who all blend into each other, ‘cause they haven’t spent an hour each day scrubbing their lily white skin. “Shouldn’t we get back now?” He’s well past drunk and he doesn’t care. It’ll probably be better for all concerned if he drinks himself into unconsciousness, because it’ll stop him saying something he’ll regret later. It’ll stop him picturing Kaylee pinned underneath him and pining for someone else, stop the taste of her on his tongue. “I bet you ever get close enough with Kaylee, that scar on her belly’s a real sweet spot.” Gorram it. “That’s enough, Jayne.” Simon sighs