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Retro-vertigo	By : spaceoddity Category: 1 through F > Firefly Views: 1952 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Firefly universe, with the exception of original characters & settings, is owned by Joss Whedon. Not for profit.

Chapter List
- 1-Ch. 1
- 2-Ch. 2
- 3-Ch. 3
- 4-Ch. 4
- 1
- 2
- 3
Translations:
- “doxy”= whore
- “bayou” = river
- “Gon beh” = bottoms up (dry cup)
- “puhn yoh” = buddy/pal
- “Chwee ni duh” = screw you
- “Swa” = manipulate/play someone for a fool
- “pass him a slap”= slap him;
- “Jah yoh” = cheering or urging someone on (add fuel)
- “Luhn gohn” = a cold place ([to be] in someone's doghouse)
- “Ichigo ichi” = Once in a lifetime
- “mon homme” = my man
- “Chui se” = Go to hell (go die)
- "Pi gu" = ass (posterior)
Ch. 2
***
I always thought the
sun was just a
hole in the
sky, till
now
***

Jayne Cobb hardly ever dreamed of home.
And, yet, there he was standing in the doorway of the old wooden cottage where he'd grown up. Inside the house and to his left, a small fire was dying out on a stone hearth. It was the only light illuminating the interior of the house; his father's old rifle hung on hooks above the mantle. He could just make out his mama's knitting basket on a small, wooden rocking chair near the fireplace. On the wall opposite the fireplace stood the worn, hide covered sofa. A few of his sisters' dolls occupied the couch now, sitting primly in a row. And high above and behind him, a large half-moon was suspended over towering trees in the cold, blue-black night. Distant stars and planets glittered in the darkness.
When Jayne tried to touch the door frame, the wood felt...different...beneath his hands.
Too soft...not like wood, he thought, frowning.
Just then, a breeze passed through the open door, stirring the embers on the hearth and sending a small shower of sparks swirling up the chimney. The dark-haired mercenary had been on the verge of stepping through the doorway, but now he hesitated as he watched the embers glow faintly back to life with the passing wind.
No longer mindful of his childhood home, Jayne suddenly turned to peer into the dim night. For, somewhere in the distance, he could hear a song playing on the wind, ever so softly, like the barest whisper. He tilted his head slightly as he listened. The notes were mournful and eerie...and all too familiar.
After a fleeting hesitation, Jayne walked instinctively toward the river. His ears filled with the sound of the water's lapping echo. Night noises blended, intoxicating, with ghostly music. They beckoned him like the sweetest doe-eyed doxy. He knew if he followed the bayou south and west, he'd find his old crew at the after party—
Instantly, Jayne was transported to the edge of a familiar tree line. Moss hung from the tree branches overhead, shadowed tangles in the night. Among the trees stood fragrant milkweed and sleeping monkey flower. The acrid smoke of a bonfire hung thick in the air.
At that moment, a barely existent breeze passed, causing the slight branches of the willow trees lining the river bank to sway gently. Jayne could smell the bayou now. He could see the shadowed outlines of the bald cypresses looming, jutting up from the swamp's murky depths. Bemused, his nostrils flared and, swatting a mosquito that buzzed round his head, Jayne observed the crowd of people on the river bank several meters ahead of him.
The music from the acoustic guitar—Guitars, Jayne quickly corrected himself, for he could now distinguish that there were two being strummed: a bass melody and a rhythm guitar—was louder now, clearer in his ears. The notes were accompanied by a chorus of insects and toads, and the low murmur of the crowd. Jayne recognized the song. Hell, he'd helped write that song, years ago.
Years?
For reasons unbeknownst to him Jayne's own question baffled him. His green eyes narrowed as he made his way through the crowd. His own memory appeared blurry in his head, as though he were seeing them through a drunken, smoke filled haze. So instead, Jayne focused on finding the musicians—
At once, he was sitting on a log with his elbows propped on his knees. Across from him, plucking a large, acoustic bass guitar, sat a startlingly familiar face. Jayne couldn't quite conceal his slack-jawed expression of surprise as he gazed upon the old friend he hadn't seen in quite some time.
No, Jayne's scrambled brains told him. Of course Dax is here... It was Dax's song. The song he'd asked me to collaborate on with him when we quit school.
Dax Laveau—musician, poet, and gunslinger extraordinaire—nodded an acknowledgment to Jayne and picked the bass strings without missing a beat.
Jayne and him went back real far, Jayne reckoned now as he leaned back and took in the man before him. Jayne was only two years older, but Dax was thin, and a bit on the short side, and the man's baby face always caused others to assume he was younger than he really was. The firelight reflected in Dax's blue eyes, and the flames threw ghostly shadows across his shaved face. The younger man was dressed in his typical combat boots and cargo trousers, with a white tee-shirt beneath a brown leather coat. Sandy blond hair hung loose above his narrow, yet muscled, shoulders.
Jayne smirked. The merc had always been fond of telling his old pal that he ought to shave his head like a man. And Dax finally had, when the War for Independence from the Allied Planets began. Shaved his head and donned his brown coat to take up arms in the fight that eventually killed him. But not once did it occur to Jayne to wonder now why he was seeing a dead man in the flesh.
The war notwithstanding, Jayne and Dax had many-an-interest in common, chief among them—and in no particular order—being booze, guns, girls, and music. Jayne Cobb and Dax Laveau were the first members of a five-man rock band that came to be known as the 'Executioner’s Jest.' The group actually had a small, yet loyal underground fan base, literally ranging from one end of the system to the other—even if it was on the Rim. But Executioner’s Jest had only recorded two albums before its members went their separate ways.
Well, I went on my way.
Jayne Cobb had been a wanted man back in those days, too—whether by mercenaries, Feds, or the drunken idiots who dared cross him. Eventually, there came a point in which Jayne knew that the safety of his family and friends, and their families, depended on his distance from them. And a man was a poor shot with a six-string strapped to his back.
So he left. After that, Dax, the singer/songwriter, and Chris, the drummer of Executioner’s Jest, left for the war, and the band would never again reunite.
Strangely enough—Jayne realized now with a start as he dragged his mind from past to present—the person strumming the six-string acoustic so rhythmically was not Sammy Collins, Executioner's Jests' lead guitar player. Instead, seated on the patchwork quilt beside Dax was the man's younger sister—Liana Laveau.
Liana?!
Jayne's breath caught in his throat.
What is she...?
Here, Jayne sat up and began an intense study of the girl before him. Liana was a vision in red stockings and a short black skirt. The straps of her black tank top were barely-there narrow; when he saw the lacy red chemise peeking around the shoulder straps of Li's tank, Jayne released a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding. Her forearms were covered to the elbow by fingerless red gloves. The gloves had been knitted lovingly with twisted cables and tiny stitches.
Stitches t' hide stitches. Jayne smiled grimly at the metaphor his memory had coined. Brilliant.
He couldn't stop staring at Liana, however, despite being able to see right through her melodrama. Her wavy chestnut hair just touched her shoulders, shimmered golden in the firelight. Those tresses framed the most dazzling pair of eyes a man would ever see in his life.
Just then, Li tossed her red-brown mane and found Jayne's smoldering gaze. It was then that Jayne could see Liana's violet iris clearly and in sharp contrast to the gray one. Those mismatched eyes had mesmerized him ever since they were kids. Now, he gave the smug, smiling eyes that held him a hard considering stare as Liana sang.
“...There's blood on the moon, and the summer is cold. There's love in the room, but, baby, that's gettin' old...”
Jayne couldn't recall whether or not he was dreaming. There had been so many bayou parties after an Executioner's Jest performance, it was hard to tell whether this particular shindig had actually taken place once, or not.
He began to smell an acridly aromatic scent in the air and thought of the many people in the crowd around them, drinking and smoking spice and eating poisoned stew, passing it all around—
At once, the tall drummer of Executioner's Jest, Chris Gautreaux, was at Jayne's side. The koi fish tattooed on Chris' neck gleamed in the firelight. His muscular tattooed arm outstretched as he offered Jayne a spice cigarette with a grin. Jayne took it, nodding, and smiled his thanks.
Not once did it occur to the mercenary to think that he hadn't seen his old band mates in over five years. Instead, as he took a drag off the spice, what occurred to Jayne was that this whole scenario had already happened (hadn't it?) and that he was reliving it somehow. But it was so vivid—too vivid.
This shit never happens t' me, he thought, letting the smoke in his lungs slowly make it's way back out his nostrils.
His ears were filled with Liana's voice blending with the crackling fire.
“...There's blood on the moon. There's blood on just about everything...”
At that point, in his peripheral, Jayne caught sight of the band's keyboardist. His gaze barely flickered from the performers, however, as he held out the spice to Shin Shimazu, who had materialized to Jayne's left and was now strolling toward him. Shin gave the mercenary a lazy, knowing smile. Without missing a beat, he took the cig, stuck it in his mouth, and, arching his eyebrow, walked past.
But all Jayne could see were a pair of mismatched eyes in the face of a temptress who, at that moment, was singing like a siren.
“... Who cares? 'Cause the air is free. When you get there will you kiss the dead for me...?”
From out of nowhere, a familiar voice gave Jayne pause. He peered over his shoulder to see Chris Gautreaux, his bald head thrown back as he laughed at whatever 'Skinny' Sammy Collins had said.
Knew he had t' be around here somewhere, Jayne thought absently.
Skinny Sam, dressed in a brown button-down and trousers of the same color that covered the tops of his black cowboy boots, grinned at Jayne as he held up his cup in salute.
Then Jayne found himself raising his own mug with a crooked smile.
He gave a slight shake of his head afterward. Frowning, he peered into the contents of the tin cup. The murky, yellow-brown liquid appeared to contain small, dark chunks of some sort. Cautiously, he lifted the cup to his nose, sniffed. The earthy, bitter smell of decay greeted him, and he grimaced slightly.
Mushrooms.
The kids back home ate it all them time. Called it 'tea' or 'stew.' They would boil 'em down and drink 'em or chew 'em up raw. The psilocybin in the fungus made 'em just as deadly as drops, and just as illegal, too. But mushrooms grew everywhere along the bayou. And Jayne couldn't resist a good trip now and then.
As if you're not tripping right now? A cynical voice in the back of his brain remarked.
“Well,” the mercenary said to himself. “Gon beh.”
With that, he upended the mug, swallowing the cut caps whole. As he did so, the acoustic music grew to an intense crescendo.
“Something cold is forced inside her. A tear spills down her cheek. Stillborn songs of the dead dreamer, yeah, hymns of the needle freak...”
“Hey, Jayne!”
Startled, Jayne looked back at Skinny Sam again to see the lankier man drawing near him. Sam came to a halt beside the mercenary, then watched the musicians for a moment before turning his attention back to Jayne.
“Try not to blow chunks all over my shoes again, puhn yoh.”
“Chwee ni duh,” Jayne responded sheepishly.
Sam laughed aloud and clapped the merc on the shoulder before turning away to walk along the path Shin had followed earlier.
All of a sudden, Jayne's stomach turned a mite sour. But he didn't puke. Instead, he stared again at the duet in front of him as the music reached a high note.
“...There's sunlight in her hair. She smiles like she don't care. Her dreams are liquid blue. I cut myself again and again to remind myself of you...”
Jayne dropped his gaze then, but he couldn't hold back a scoff.
Who's idea was this, anyway?
Jayne Cobb was furious.
Lil' Liana Laveau, he thought acidly, performing one of our songs...this song! She was trying to swa the crowd, but Jayne knew her better than that. Li weren't nothin' but a damned talented con artist who couldn't quit tagging along with her older brother. And when she weren't in the mood to perform, Liana was flighty and distant, with a white hot anger she took out on anyone nearby—including herself. Especially herself.
And now she was singing about cutting herself.
If this was Dax's idea, I ought'ta pass him a slap, Jayne thought bitterly. Dax would have done the same to Jayne, had their roles been reversed.
“...I like the scream of the butterfly. I like the scream of the butterfly...”
Ah, to hell with Dax. Jayne ran a hand over his goatee.
Liana was the one he wanted to throttle, the one he wanted to hear screaming....
The song ended, and he saw a blur of cups raised as the crowd applauded. In his head he knew that the yelling, the obnoxious whistling, was shrill. But, to his ears, it sounded far away.
“Jah yoh!”
Jayne grit his teeth and glanced back at Shin, who was applauding heartily.
Now, Jayne had always assumed that Shin and Liana had a thing for each other. He was well aware that the two had crossed paths while Li was staying with her cousins on the mainland one summer. They'd met at some dive and ended up writing a couple songs together. Then she came back to the Isle, and Shin showed up a few days later.
It was Li who had introduced the tall slant-eyed man to the rest of her brother's band. When the guys had asked Shin to show 'em what he could do, the man had specifically requested that Liana accompany him on guitar. The ol' Chinky eyed man was actually pretty good on the keys, though Jayne was loath to admit that fact. Plus, Shin had recording equipment, and a hell of a lot o' money. And so the keyboardist, Shinichirô Shimazu, became the fifth and final member of Executioner's Jest.
Now, Dax's laughter pulled Jayne out of his brooding thoughts. He watched Dax reach out to someone passing him a rolled cigarette.
Jayne did not see Liana put her guitar down and come to stand close to him. But when he turned his head again, she was there; her small hand rested on his shoulder as she leaned in close and whispered in his ear.
“What took ya so long?”
Jayne felt his nerve ends tingle at the feeling of her breath against his ear. He pulled back to look at her glowing face. He lost himself in the fire reflected in her mismatched gray and violet eyes.
“I fergot what I had t' do,” he said honestly.
As his eyes traveled lower, Jayne could make out Liana's tight nipples straining against her shirt. That caused a tightness in his groin, which only furthered to intensify when his eyes flew back up to Li's full red lips.
“You sure are a sight fer sore eyes, pischouette,” Jayne murmured low, his voice thick with lust.
And before he knew it, Liana was straddling him, her arms wrapped loosely around his neck. Jayne ran his hands up and down her ribcage before settling them on her waist. He then became aware of the noise around them. People talking, laughing. Fucking. Sicking up.
When he flicked his gaze back to the quilt spread on the ground, he observed that Dax had traded the bass for the acoustic Li had been playing, and he was now strumming it expertly. Dax held the cigarette between his lips and lost himself in smoke and music.
This must be a dream, Jayne thought. Dax would have punched me by now if he saw his lil' sis hangin' on me like this.
"Hey, Jayne."
Jayne and Liana turned their heads in unison, taking in Shin. He was holding a beer bottle in one well manicured hand, and he paused to take a drink before winking at the merc.
"Is ichigo ichi, eh?" Shin smiled and turned his attention to Sam. "You a bettin' man, Skinny Sam?"
“What are da stakes, my friend?” the curly haired man replied with a grin.
“I got ten credits,” Shin announced, “says Jayne's gonna get a kiss 'fore he gets in luhn gohn with Dax and dey scrap it out. You in?”
Jayne peered up at Liana, unable to entirely hide the smirk forming on his face. But Li was staring at Shin with wide eyes.
“Okay,” Sammy replied, squinting at the pair. “I got ten credits says Jayne's gonna get burned by da both of 'em.”
“Ha ha! You're on, mon homme.” Shin clinked his glass against Sam's cup, and the two men tossed back the respective contents.
“Oh, I need in on dis,” Chris said with a grin as he sifted through his wallet for some cash.
“Chui se,” Li muttered, rolling her eyes at her brother's three friends.
When she lifted her soft lashes again, Jayne saw a vulnerable look in her eyes; he couldn't help thinking it was sexy as hell. He simply took her in for a moment, and then he raised his hand and gave her pi gu a playful spank. Her squirm made him elated.
“Hey,” he said, capturing her attention. “Did you eat the stew?”
“Absolutely not,” Liana replied indignantly, her gray eye narrowing in a glare. “You know I hate da taste o' mushrooms.” Her violet eye looked wary. “Did you, Jayne? Eh?”
Jayne responded by threading his fingers through her silken mane.
“Maybe so, Li.”
He brought her mouth down to his, let his lips brush lightly against hers—
—and was startled harshly awake by a loud crash.

A.N.: The lyrics in asterisks are from Paroled in '54 by Agents of Oblivion on their self-titled album released in 2000. The lyrics within the story belong to Acid Bath and the song Scream of the Butterfly, which is from their 1992 album “When the Kite String Pops.” Also, the bit about Jayne clowning Dax to “shave his head like a man” was taken from Pantera and the song Fucking Hostile from their '92 album “Vulgar Display of Power.” These lyrics are used w/ artistic license and are copyrighted by their respective owners. I receive no profit for this work. Furthermore, all these bands are awesome and deserve praise from all upon bended knee and with open mouth. Assuming you are female; if ye be male, don't be gay—check out these bands if ye have ne'r heard their tales...
For all you Firefly nuts who want to say, “Technically, Jayne doesn't kiss girls on the mouth--” Well, I explain that in a later chapter too, just for you ^.~
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Retro-vertigo