There are seven things that Jayne Cobb loves in the ‘verse, and none of ‘em have anything to do with the fancy doctor in his shiny vests. He loves his Ma, first and foremost. He loves the burn of cheap whiskey and the sizzle-glow of good scotch, just that one time. He loves the rush when a plan goes south, and all that’s keepin’ him and his alive is his fists and his guns. He loves the thrum in his muscles after a workout, and the thrum in his mind from Book’s nonsense-talk. He loves the satisfied glow in a whore’s eyes when she offers him a freebie. He takes the sex, but always pays. He loves Serenity, though he ain’t never gonna admit it. And there ain’t nothin’ in the world Jayne likes so much as slidin’ the firing pin, slick with oil, into Vera. It catches with a snick and everything makes sense. None of that explains why he’s sinking deep and slow into Simon’s ass, feeling the throb of the doc's pulse from the tip of his dick to the bottom of his feet. None of that has anything to do with his fingers drawing white-red curves over Simon’s hips, with his stubble carving pink swathes over Simon’s back. Well, maybe that seventh thing.