“I just– It's all so standard... and boring,” Zoe grumbles as she follows her husband down yet another corridor, indistinguishable from the last ten. “Two-thousand and eight, two-thousand and nine,” Wash mutters under his breath as they pass the numbered doors. “How can it be more boring than our bunk?” he returns, “Wait and see, you don't know what it's going to be like yet.” “Honey, it's a hub. They're all the same. They give me the creeps,” she says flatly. He stops short outside a door, folds his arms and sighs. Too late she remembers he grew up on a hub most likely the twin of this one, just wreathed in a fog of pollution. “This will be different,” he says firmly, “But if you're determined to hate it, let's turn around now.” She deflates a little, suddenly feeling far less justified in her complaining, like a petulant child caught out. “I'll give it a try,” she says, a bite of impatience still in her voice. Wash doesn't care, he knows victory when he sees it. He slots his identi-chip into the lock and it goes from red to green. “You first,” he says. She pushes open the door and steps inside. “You silly little man,” she says softly, “How much did this cost?” There's a double bed with satin sheets. Thick, soft carpet on the floor and tasteful hangings over cream walls. The windows look out over New Dunsmuir, the docks just visible in the distance and the houses of none-corporate workers laid out far down below. The sun is setting, the horizon a smear of pinky-orange fading to blue. It's not a bad view, as far as they go on Beaumonde. “Enough,” he replies, and then can't quite suppress his glee, “Wait until you see the bathroom.” She drops her bag on the bed and pushes open the other door. There's a jacuzzi-sized tub, more than big enough for them both. “A real bath!” she enthuses, turning around and flinging her arms around his neck. He lets her kiss him for a moment. “Why don't you run that bath? I bet it takes a while to fill,” he says quietly when their lips break apart for a moment. She kisses him again quickly. “I love you,” she says, and a moment later the sound of running water fills the room, Zoe's soft humming underscoring the noise as she undresses. He sits down on the bed, takes off his shoes. It's only a relatively cheap hotel room, when all's said and done. Champagne and the strawberries in the cooler if they've managed to get the room right, and maybe a film they can cuddle up watching later – much later- he tells himself. He wishes he could give her more, although he's not sure if a grand palace with as many baths as rooms could make her smile wider than it is right now. He hears her get in the bath as he flicks through the guide to the television channels they can access. Much as he wants to be in there with her, he knows how much Zoe likes relaxing in the tub and he figures he should give her a few moments to herself. She's still humming. She only hums when she's really happy. He's done good, he realises, and – “You plannin' on joinin' me, husband?” she asks, her voice a low purr. He can see her through the open door, arms folded on the edge of the bath-tub, eyebrow raised partly in mockery of her own seduction. He swallows. “Oh yeah,” he manages, and leaps off the bed.

*

There's no one around in the municipal park after dark, and Jayne considers this a good thing, as Kirsty kisses his neck and slides a hand into his trousers. Even after the shooting range, neither of them has quite enough trust to go back to a bunk – it could too easily be a set-up, after all. Kirsty doesn't seem to mind this, however, which explains why they're in the shadow of a gardener's shed, his fingers already fumbling with the buttons of her shirt as her hands find his erection. It's not romantic, but it feels a thousand times nicer than any whore's parlour. He realises he's almost forgotten what it feels like to have sex you haven't paid for, and that's a gorram sorry state of affairs. She steps out of her trousers and he lifts her up, strong hands cradling her bottom. She wraps her legs round his waist; pulls him close and now he remembers and it feels -God!- It feels good to be welcome and wanted inside her, rather than a way to put food on tomorrow night's table. She doesn't try to kiss him, even when she comes and her forehead presses against his, nose to sweaty nose. She understands the rules – you never kiss them when you'll probably never see them again. Means something more than just a quick, fun fumble in a park if you do and neither of them want that. But she's pretty, he thinks afterwards as he does up his trousers, and he won't be sad if they do see each other again. “I gotta go,” she says, voice still a little husky, once they're mostly dressed, “We're shippin' out in a couple of hours.” “I figured,” he rasps, “Hope it goes just fine for you guys.” She nods. “You too. If the stars smile we might just see each other again on Tranquility. If I'm lucky.” Tranquility. Mal hasn't told him the name of the moon where they're dropping the cargo, but he guesses that's where she means. “Won't be unhappy if we do,” he returns. “Bye Jayne,” she says, all sweet sexy smile. He waves as she sashays away from him, swallowed up by the dusk after a moment. “Won't be unhappy,” he murmurs again to himself with a smile.