“Jayne, I brought you something.” River had glided up to him unnoticed, but he was almost used to it now. He only jumped a little.

“What could you think I might want, little moonbrain?” he asked, sitting up on the bench and grabbing the towel from the floor. He wiped the sweat from his face and muscular arms.

“You gave away your painting.”

Jayne stopped in the act of rubbing the back of his broad neck and looked up at her. “That … it weren’t really mine to give. Just made sure it got home.”

“But you paid for it. Saw it and bought it. Haggled the man somewhat, but gave your money for it.”

His brows drew together. “You reading me? Thought we agreed you wouldn’t do that no more.”

“Not reading you, silly. But I know you.” She smiled, her black hair sliding forward.

“Yeah, well, that don’t make it any less creepy.” He stood up. “So what you get me? And if’n you have, it don’t mean I gotta get you something back,” he added quickly. “Ain't gonna start playin’ those kinda games.”

“It isn’t meant like that.” She moved her hands from behind her back. “I just thought you shouldn’t have to lose out.”

“I don’t lose, River,” Jayne pointed out, eyeing the flat package. It was done up in brown paper with a pink ribbon around it. “Pink?” he asked. “What is it with girls and pink?”

“It goes with your heart,” she said mysteriously.

“What?” He looked at her in puzzlement. “You trying to say I'm girlie?”

“I wouldn’t dare.” She held out the package. “Take it.”

He rather reluctantly took hold of it, handling it as if it might explode at any moment. “Girl …”

“Open it.”

Oh hell, he could only die once, and he was pretty certain she could kill him a lot easier than with something as unsophisticated as a bomb. He pulled the ribbon off and ripped the brown paper away. “Wuh de mah,” he breathed.

“I did it myself for you, had it framed on Persephone. I think they’ve done a good job, don’t you?” She moved next to him, looking over his shoulder, reaching around to stroke the dark wood of the frame.

“It’s … I don’t …” Jayne was hardly ever lost for words, but now, looking down at the portrait …

It was Zoe, the Zoe he had in his mind whenever he thought of her. Not the young one full of possibilities of Anselm’s picture, or the vulnerable woman he’d seen when she’d said goodbye to Wash, but the strong soldier, the Corporal at Mal’s back, Serenity’s first mate.

It was a pencil drawing, but coloured so subtly as to draw the eye to the curve of her neck, the set of her jaw, the light glinting off the carbine in her hand. She seemed about to leap off the paper, and he could almost smell the gunpowder, hear the crack of the bullet overhead.

“You know I ain’t …” He stopped, looking into dark eyes not more than a foot from his own. “I mean, I did think, maybe once, you know, if me and her had … if she’d been amenable, but …” He stopped again. “Oh, ruttin’ hell.” He glared at her. “Why’d you do this?”

“Because you’re my pengyou. That’s all.”

“You know I ain’t interested in you, don’t you? Friends is fine, but –”

She laughed, a somewhat disturbing sound to his ear. “It doesn’t mean anything, Jayne,” she said softly. “Just say thank you.”

He glanced back down at the picture in his hands. “Thanks,” he mumbled, then looked up. She’d melted away again, leaving him alone in the cargo bay.