Author's Note: Written for the first official 2008 challenge over in the rayne_shippers comm on LiveJournal. I had lots of fun coming up with synonyms for “vomit”. :D Like everyone else’s stories, this is not beta’d.

GOOD GUYS, BAD GUYS AND THE WILEY SPECIAL HELL

Jayne clapped his hand over his mouth and hurriedly turned his head to avoid vomiting all over the floor. He groaned loudly as he shifted to sit next to his un-chosen stainless steel deity.

“Shut ur gob and quit moanin’” Mal grumped from the other side of the toilet. He was quiet for a moment but then lurched up to take a spew into the toilet himself.

“This is all yer fault.” growled Jayne, crossing his arms over his stomach. He grimaced when he realized he had some sort of red sauce crusted over the front of his shirt.

“How in the ‘verse, is this my fault?” asked Mal. He glared at the girl on the other side of their small jail cell sleeping with her back towards them. “If anythin’ this is River’s fault. She’s the one talked us inta this. How come ya ain’t blamin’ her? An’ how come she ain’t heavin’?”

Jayne conceded that Mal had something of a point. But he wasn’t about to go around accusing a moony person of just anything when said moony person might forget her vow of nonviolence and pull his balls off in less time than it takes to tell. Mal grunted in reply.

Not long after the whole Miranda business, River had for some reason unknown to anyone besides herself, decided to take a vow of non-violence. That of course, suited everyone just fine. But when she decided that everyone else could also benefit from such a vow, Mal and his penchant for getting into fistfights with disreputable men whose pockets he’d plundered found themselves in not quite mortal danger. Fortunately for Mal and his penchant, River was happy to suggest alternative ways of bilking slavers out of their money.

Unfortunately for Jayne, that often meant he ended up in situations of varying levels of humiliation. Waking up in a jail cell with an ornery stomach was on the worse end of the spectrum, not that the way he’d gotten there was any better now that he’d thought on it some.

“Told you not to eat the peaches.” River muttered in an exasperated voice as she turned to face the two men. “They were covered in spores.”

Across the cell block, three men Jayne vaguely remembered from last night all woke with the sudden need to upchuck. They bolted for the toilet, banging their heads together when they arrived at the same time. Not all of their rejected stomach contents made it into the bowl. The cursing and squabbling quickly subsided as the men gave into their nausea and sprawled around their cell, as close to the lone toilet as they could get. One of the men glared at the three people who had been and still were his enemies.

It’d all started when the crew had decided to celebrate their latest successful job at a local joint called Wiley’s. Apparently, a group of slavers had also chosen to celebrate a successful run at the same establishment. That of course did not sit well with Mal and it was not long before he and Jayne were butting heads with them. It had nearly gotten to the point of fisticuffs when River cut in between the two groups and suggested a wager, whoever could eat more at the buffet.

“This is all yer fault.” He said, pointing an unsteady finger at them.

“And how do ya figure that?” demanded Mal. “If ya’ll hadn’t started throwin’ the food around, we wouldn’t be in here at all.”

“We didn’t start nuthin’!” exclaimed one of the other men indignantly. “Yer the ones who started the food throwin’.”

“Did not!”

“Did too!”

It was degenerating into childish arguing and name calling when all five combatants were seized with the need to vomit. River ignored the sounds of retching and strolled over to the small barred window cut into the cell wall. She was smiling up at the sun when the town’s sheriff entered the jail. He glanced in both cells and chuckled.

“Didn’t no one ever tell you boys not ta eat the special at Wileys?” he asked.