Title: A Bit of a Mix Up
Disclaimer: You know and I know Joss Whedon owns these characters.
Author's Note: One of the prompts for the Washathon was "I'd like to see a Wash-Jayne body swap." My conscious mind kinda did Mal's "Huh," and walked on by. However, my subconscious apparently liked the idea, because it sent me a couple images, which became scenes, which then needed to be connected, and then there was a story.

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Wash staggered slightly under the weight of the side of the metal crate he was helping Jayne stow. Guy always moved as quick as he could, his greater strength making easy work of loads which Wash could handle, really, if he could go at his own pace. He'd stopped asking Jayne to slow down though, years ago. Just gave him yet another reason to sneer.

They set the crate down, a long, narrow rectangular box a bit over one and a half meters long and a half meter wide, and shoved it almost against the hull. Wash rubbed his hands together to get the cramps out, watching curiously as Jayne pulled an EM crowbar out of the thigh pocket of his cargo pants, and set its edge into the crate's top seam.

"Wait. What're you doing?"

"Lookin' inside. Always look inside these days, 'less Mal says specific not to. Didn't say not, so I mean to." He activated the crow bar, and all the clasps on the lid snapped open. Jayne lifted the metal panel, and it slid off the back edge of the crate, then out of Jayne's grip, slipping between the crate itself and the hull. He huffed impatiently.

"Why?" Wash inquired, shifting his feet, shoving his hands into his front pockets.

Jayne shot him a scornful look. "'Cuz, li'l man. Frozen crazies. Dead guys what ain't. Ruttin' Alliance stamped goods. 'Mong other things. 'M tired of trouble comin' at me sideways outta my own cargo bay."

"Makes sense," Wash said agreeably, peering into the open crate. Saw a thick sheet of tan packing foam, which Jayne quickly flipped up to reveal a machine of some kind, nestled in more foam, dull silver metal, with a number of inactive readout screens, and a lot of toggles and switches.

"What's that?" Jayne asked.

"Dunno," Wash answered. "Where's this thing going?"

Jayne set the packing foam down, and leaning over the crate, tried to get a grip on the lid to haul it back. It was awkward, and he set one hand down lightly on the packing foam to balance himself. He managed to pull the lid up and set it back on top of the crate. They read the label together.

"Beaumonde," Jayne said. "'MacGuffin Neur- Neuro-'"

"'MacGuffin Neurometronics, Inc. R and D Department.'" Wash shrugged. "Looks like it might be some kind of medical equipment. Some kinda brain scanner, maybe."

"Huh. Mebbe Doc can use it on Crazy."

"And maybe you better close that back up, before Mal finds us poking around in his cargo, and gets his knickers in a knot."

Jayne shot him yet another scornful glance, for caring whether the captain's feathers were ruffled or not. But he did follow his suggestion and secure the lid.

"That it?" Wash asked, meaning the loading and stowing.

"Yep."

"Better go do piloty things."

"Whatever."

Many hours later, Wash's internal clock woke him, just before ship's dawn, and he knew right away something was wrong. The bunk just didn't smell right; gun oil and sweaty guy. Jayne; it smelled like Jayne. He sat up with a little spurt of alarm, opening his eyes. What was Jayne doing in his bunk?

On second thought, what was he doing in Jayne's bunk? In Jayne's bed? Alone, even. Thank the renci de Fozu. The lights were very low, but he could make out the blanket on the wall that Jayne used to protect his weapons rack, the pale pages of the pinups fastened to the hull.

He threw off the blanket, and stood up... and up. He'd never noticed that the ceiling was any lower in Jayne's bunk than in any of the others. In fact, he was pretty sure it wasn't. And... had he been drinking last night? His body felt all out of whack, though he couldn't say exactly how. But he didn't drink while he was driving, and Serenity was certainly in motion. Although excessive drink would certainly explain why he didn't remember climbing into Jayne's bunk and bed. Though not why he would want to be in Jayne's bunk in the first place.

He lifted a hand to run his fingers through his hair, and froze, staring at it.

That was not his hand. That was not his arm. He looked down. Even covered by the t-shirt and sweat pants, he could tell that this was not his body. He spotted the mirror over the unopened sink, and lurched toward it. Jayne's face, pale blue eyes wild and panicked, stared back at him.

"What th-" He broke off, because that was not his voice booming in his ears. He slowly brought his hand up toward his face, watching in the mirror, as Jayne's huge paw came up and touched Jayne's bearded chin. And Wash felt it. Unreal, lao tian ye, this was unreal. But he was seeing it, feeling it, hearing it, and...

And if he were here, in Jayne's body, in Jayne's bunk, where was Jayne?

Horror shocked through him, and then he was triggering open the hatch to his own bunk with no clear sense of how he'd gotten up Jayne's ladder and down the corridor. He half-fell, half-slid down the ladder... To catch himself in a very compromising position with his wife.

"Get the hell off of her, you filthy hun dan!" he roared, starting forward... then lurching back again, hands flapping in a warding off gesture, as Zoe pointed a pistol at his face.

"No, no, lambie-toes!" he babbled, wincing away from impending bullets. "It's me, not Jayne! It's me!"

"Aw, gorram it," the other, very naked man drawled, grinning, rolling onto his side. "An' here I thought I was gonna get me some."

Zoe pointed the gun slightly to one side, but didn't lower it. Eyes narrow, she shot suspicious glances back and forth between the two men. Between Jayne, pale eyes wide and desperate, hands waving ineffectually over his head, and Wash, lolling in her bed, leering, eyes crawling up and down her naked body, like he'd never had a chance to check it out before.

"This ain't funny, you two," she said coldly.

"Damn ruttin' right, it ain't funny!" Wash hollered, grabbing his hair in frustration, finding it much shorter than it was eight hours ago.

"Uhhh," the man in the bed said, frowning in confusion. "Hang on here half a tick." Jayne sat up, swinging his legs over the side. He committed the classic 'get me out of this dream' move, and pinched himself on the forearm. His eyes widened in shock. "What the hell!? This is real?!" He stared down in horrified disbelief at the not-so-large, only semi-muscular body he found himself in. Then he sprang out of the bed, lunging for Wash, shouting, "Gimme back my body, y' gorram thief!"

One advantage to being in Jayne's body made itself immediately apparent, as, with his greater reach and strength, Wash easily held himself – no – Jayne off.

"What in the sphincters of hell is goin' on down there?" The captain, crouched at the open hatch, peered into the bunk, trying to piece together the cause of the ruckus. Though he figured Jayne in Zoe and Wash's bedroom might have something to do with it. At least he was dressed, which was more than could be said for Zoe and Wash.

"Don't rightly know, sir," his first mate said slowly, a puzzled furrow between her brows. "Seems to be a bit of a mix up."

"He's in my body, Mal! And was nearly in my wife!" Jayne yelled up at him, arms stiff in front of him, awkwardly holding the red-faced, tousle-haired pilot off of him.

"'S ruttin' thief's done body snatched mine!" Wash bellowed, arms swinging, trying furiously to come to grips with the big gunman.

Then, coming to the realization that he wasn't going to be able to simply overpower the man ganking his body, Jayne gave him a good, sharp, scientific jab in the solar plexus. Wheezing, Wash let go of him, folding over as he struggled to take in a breath.

Both Zoe and Mal gaped, as Wash's precise, expert blow had Jayne curling over, clutching his stomach, gasping for air. Wash, spine arcing fluidly, raised his fist high, preparing to hammer it down on the back of Jayne's neck, and Zoe grabbed him, pinning him before he could follow through. She felt her husband's body move to counter her in a way she knew he didn't know. She swiftly laid the cool length of the barrel of the pistol in her hand against his temple, and he went still. For a moment, the only sound was the gasping breaths of the big man bent over with his hands on his knees.

"Huh," Mal grunted. He gave it a few more strangely silent moments, and then, when Jayne levered himself upright, taking a long, quavering inhalation, he did his best to assert some control over this unprecedented situation.

"You," he said, pointing at Jayne, "come outta there." He pointed at Zoe and Wash. "You two, get dressed. Then, come out and we'll talk."

Jayne glared up at him with a stubborn expression he knew all too well, though not on that face. "I am not leaving him alone in here – naked – with my wife." He turned to look as Zoe, who still had Wash pinioned, and said plaintively, "I really wish you'd stop holding him, honey." He waved his hands in distress. "You're all... naked."

Wash chuckled lecherously, in a disturbingly Jayne-like way, and drawled, "Know what, Zoe? Think we're nekkid." He reached back with one hand, setting it on her bare thigh.

Mal shook his head. This was getting beyond weird.

Zoe pushed Wash – who, honestly, didn't feel quite like Wash, just something in his stance – away from her, and ordered coolly, "Get dressed." She gestured toward the tiny dresser in the corner, on top of which were a neatly folded pair of cargo pants, where Wash could grab them quickly on his way to the bridge.

Jayne moved suddenly, and Zoe swung on him, though she did not lift her weapon. He stopped in his tracks, lifting one hand to run his fingers through his hair, just like Wash did when he was stressed. Looking at her wide eyed, without a trace of a leer, he said quietly, "I was just gonna get you your robe."

"I got it," she replied, studying him warily, lifting it off its peg on the wall. Jayne turned his attention back to the other man in the bunk, but she continued to watch him, as she shrugged into the robe. At his grimace, she followed his gaze.

Wash had the cargo pants shaken out and was beginning to step into them, without benefit of undergarments.

"There's briefs in the top drawer," Jayne informed him, pointing at the dresser.

The blond man shook his head, shrugging one shoulder dismissively, as he started to put one foot in the pants' leg. "Never wear 'em. Don't like how they bind."

The big merc, voice rising in alarm, declared, "You are not going commando in my pants!"

Wash stopped, one leg garbed, and ran a knowing eye over Jayne's body. "Why not? Bet you're goin' commando in my pants."

"I-" Jayne started, then stopped, his attention focused... elsewhere. Tiny patches of red formed on his cheekbones. He blurted, "This is what I was wearing when I woke up. I d-didn't-"

"Toldja I never wore 'em."

Zoe had been watching this back and forth with a growing sense of dismay. She shot a quick glance up at Mal, still crouched, observing. He simply lifted his brows in a baffled shrug. She turned back to the two men in her bunk.

"You."

They both swung to look at her. She indicated Wash – the man who looked like Wash – with her chin. "Briefs. Put 'em on."

He threw a you are so whipped sneer in Jayne's direction, but complied, removing the trousers he had half on and going to the dresser. He opened the top left drawer and pulled out a pair of silky black panties. He held them up delicately, between his finger and thumb, a bemused expression on his face.

"Other. Drawer," Jayne ground out, fists clenching.

Wash glanced back at him with an expression of profound relief. "Ai ya, really had me goin' there a bit."

The dressing went on without any other bobbles. Then Zoe sent both men out so she could dress privately. Mal marched the two of them down to the galley, and pointed at the table. "Sit."

They both did, Wash flinging himself into a chair, arms crossed, knees spread wide, expression sullen. Jayne perched on the edge of his seat, both hands flat on the table, gaze directed back toward the entrance to the galley, clearly waiting for Zoe's arrival. His dark brows were compressed in a worried pinch. Mal went to stand by his usual chair, arms folded, lips tight, his displeasure with these men, and the 'verse in general, evident in every line of his face and body.

Kaylee, who had been at the stove, mixing up some protein for everyone's breakfast, had smiled cheerfully when they all walked in, her mouth opening to greet them. Now she stood, mouth still open, her gaze flicking anxiously from face to face, her spoon limp in her fingers.

"Somethin' th' matter?" she asked tentatively. "Thought I heard some shoutin'. Wash and Jayne, didja have a fight?"

"Sort of," Jayne muttered.

"Gorram thief," Wash growled.

The captain snapped, "Bizui."

Zoe strode into the galley, looking about as stern and stony as Kaylee'd ever seen her.

"All right, now," Mal said, drawing in a deep breath. "Let's all just stay calm an' collected, an' take this a-" He broke off as Book, followed by Simon and River, looking for breakfast, entered the galley. Book's gaze swept across the assembled crew, his expression becoming concerned.

"Is there a problem?" he inquired mildly.

Mal almost asked that the three of them collect themselves some food, and go eat it down in the passenger lounge. On second thought, he realized it might be handy to have the shepherd and the doctor there, what with their education and experience and all. Realized that he probably coulda used Inara's insight and skill with handlin' folks right about now, too. Only she was busy, contracted as an escort at some sorta high-brow do that lasted a fortnight on the system's main planet. Meanwhile, Serenity poked around its moons, picking up some trade here and there.

"There's a-" he started, but didn't really know how to sum up this particular situation.

"It's like this," Jayne stepped in, his dark brows lifting toward his hairline. "Somehow, me and Jayne got swapped around. I woke up in his bunk, in his body, and he woke up in mine."

"An' I almost got into Zoe's body, too." Wash grinned lasciviously.

"Listen, you gouzazhong," Jayne yelled, springing to his feet. "Don't think I won't punch you in the face just because it's mine!"

"Bring it on, li'l man," Wash jeered, coming to his feet as well, balling his fists.

Mal stepped to Jayne's side, reaching out to set a quelling hand on his shoulder, pressing him back into his chair. Meanwhile, Zoe took one lithe pace toward Wash, getting right in his face, staring into his eyes.

"Don't have to harm you to hurt you," she said softly. He paled, and quickly sat back down, gaze dropping to the side.

Watching Zoe seriously threaten her husband with physical pain pretty much brought home to the others that this was indeed an unusual situation. After a long, uncomfortable pause, the shepherd spoke.

"Let me see if I understand this," Book said, his deep voice soothing. "You," and here he indicated the man in Jayne's body, "are saying that your..." and he looked now at man in Wash's body, "that your minds have somehow been transferred into each others' bodies."

"Exactly!" Jayne said, relief at being understood shining on his face. Wash nodded, avoiding looking at Zoe by fixing his gaze on the shepherd.

"I have certainly heard of the concept of the transmigration of souls," Book said slowly, expression concerned, uncertain. "But never an exchange between two living people."

"Oh, I have," Kaylee broke in. "Happens in vids all the time. Seen this real funny one-" She broke off, realizing comedy vids probably weren't the best source of information to make sense of this. "So," she went on, a bit hesitantly. "Whatcha think happened? Did we fly through some kinda patch of weird radiation or somethin'?"

"River," Simon said suddenly, in a cautionary tone. The girl had slipped away from his side, and had circled, silent grace, around the table, and now stood behind Jayne. Her hand came up to rest on his shoulder, then slipped up toward the back of his neck.

Wash, remembering the crushed ice down the back of his flightsuit incident, gently captured her hand. Cradling it in his, he rubbed a soothing thumb across the back of it, as he turned his head to smile reassuringly up at her.

Gazing at him through the sheltering veil of her hair, she murmured, "A bird is a bird in a lair and a beast is a beast in the air." She swiveled her head, her eyes becoming even wider as she stared at the blond man across the table, watching her warily under lowered brows. "But a leopard can't change its spots." She slid her hand from Wash's and wandered into the kitchen.

After yet another moment of uncomfortable silence, Mal turned to Simon. "Doc, you're an educated man. Y' ever heard tell or read 'bout this kinda-" He made criss-crossy gestures directed at Jayne and Wash. "-swappy thingie?"

Simon turned his watchful eyes from his sister, and gave him that sideways look of his, something like a spooked horse trying to keep track of what spooked it.

"No," he said slowly. "It's possible that it's a sort of..." He started to say 'psychosis,' but chose the milder, "...confusion. A sort of... folie à deux, a delusion shared between two people-"

"Is he saying we're feng le?" Jayne abruptly sat up straight in his chair, sending an affronted look up and down the table. "Jayne, I think he's saying we're feng le."

"Well, always knew you was. But I ain't." Wash shot Simon an evil glare. "An' y' ain't crazy 'bout this." He stood up, chair legs scraping loudly on the deck, his glare now including everyone else. "We ain't foolin' and we ain't crazy. We're swapped. Deal with it." Wash's demeanor had never seemed quite so... intimidating. He looked quite ready to answer with his fists any contradiction to his statement.

Mal remembered the expert rabbit punch he'd given Jayne, and the vicious follow through he'd been intending before Zoe pinned him. A little order needed to be applied to this situation.

"Right," he said crisply. "This is all manner of confusin' and creepifin'. But we still got jobs to do. So let's just move on here, an' manage things as best we can." He turned to his pilot. "Wash-"

"Uh," Jayne interrupted, raising one huge hand, wriggling his fingers, "that would be me."

With a long suffering sigh, Mal turned his attention to the tall dark man opposite the shorter blond one. "Get us set up for landing. We're due on Random in-"

"In an hour and twenty minutes," Jayne – no, maybe really, actually – Wash stated, standing and heading for the bridge, apparently relieved to be dealing with something normal, something he understood.

Mal leaned over to Zoe, to say quietly in her ear alone. "Go up with 'im. Make sure he actually knows what he's doin'." He cast a 'verse-weary glance after the big man trotting toward the bridge. "Call me if he don't. We'll suss somethin' out."

She nodded wordlessly, and followed after the gunman who moved just like her husband did. She reached the bridge moments after he did, and he turned when she entered, back-lit and hulking.

"Zoe-" he started.

She held up one hand, cutting him off, and demanded, "Why do you call me 'lambie-toes?'"

Jayne stared at her blankly for a moment, then a slow, slanting grin stretched his mouth, a grin she'd never seen on Jayne's face, but daily on her husband's.

"Because your toes, Zoe, whilst commanding, are also so very kissably cute. Like little lambs." His smile deepened. "Want me to describe your earlobes?"

She smiled back. Not easily or comfortably. Wash's regard, love and clean, open desire, sat strangely on Jayne's dark, bearded features. But she was beginning to believe that the perverse 'verse had actually sent them one of its most perverse loops yet. She broke off staring searchingly into the pale, almost gray, eyes, nothing like Wash's clear deep blue.

"Better get us set up for approach and landing," she declared crisply. The man nodded, turning to settle into the pilot's seat. He shifted uneasily, wriggling his butt, rotating his shoulders.

"It's... cramped," he muttered. Then his hands reached out, moving on the helm with fluid assurance, his left dancing deftly on the navcomp keys as he peered up to the right, checking gauges. Then he stopped, grimacing, staring down at his hands as he flexed his fingers.

"What?" Zoe asked.

He peered up at her. "Slow. Like there's lag time." Compressing his lips, he turned back to his task, doing his best to stay focused.

She eased herself slowly onto her usual spot on the console, observing Jayne's hands move on the helm. She'd never considered him a slow man, except, occasionally, mentally. His reflexes were excellent, well-honed. But it was true that anything to do with hand/eye co-ordination, Wash had Jayne beat. Hell, had her and Mal beat too. Was a deadly shot, when he left off thinking about what a bullet did on impacting a body. Like at Niska's skyplex. But his adroitness usually only came out in games – hoop-ball, darts, pool, horseshoes. She suspected gosling juggling lurked in his past. And, of course, it showed in his handling of any vehicle that came under his deft touch.

And while the man piloting this ship might be able to tell the difference between how the hands he was using now and the ones he was using yesterday worked, she couldn't. Whoever was at the helm wasn't Jayne. Whoever was flying this ship moved just like Wash.

Wash felt Zoe's assessing gaze resting heavily upon him. While disconcerting, he understood it. Part of him kept expecting to wake up from this dream anytime now. But most of him knew this was really-o, truly-o happening. Because he could feel it. He was inside it. He was in Jayne's body, moving his hands. Hell, breathing his breaths. What must it be like for Zoe, for the rest of the crew? Like one of those weird pod-people vids.

But see.

No, don't go there.

But, really couldn't she tell?

Come on! How could she!?

Ai ya, I know, but still...

But still...

But still. A man liked to think he had his own unique, recognizable style, and that his wife, of all people, would realize the guy in bed with her was not him. Even when, y' know, he was.

The toe of Zoe's boot nudged him in knee. He looked up at her, and realized he had slumped back in his seat, his arms crossed over his chest, his face compressed in a sulky scowl. He sat up, uncrossed his arms, tried to ease up on the expression, knowing his feelings were unreasonable. But, of all the unpleasant shocks he'd had that day, the worst, by far, had been finding another man in bed with his wife. And she wouldn't let up on That Look. The one that said, "Okay, spill. Now."

"Know it's stupid," he said softly, "but." He huffed a little breath. "But. Can't believe you didn't know it wasn't me."

She nodded her understanding, but her response was unapologetic. "Thought it was you, just playin' one of your games." She grimaced slightly. "Can't say I cared for it much. You- I mean, he was about to get dumped on his ass."

"He was?" He felt his spirits perking up a bit.

"Uh huh."

Then he had a thought. "So, uh, you'd dump me on my ass?"

"Uh huh." One corner of her mouth quirked up wickedly.

He made a note to himself out loud. "No ravishment-type make-believe, check."

"Least-wise, not first thing in the morning," she clarified dryly.

"Oh, really?" he drawled, brows lifting, and he reached for her, intending to pull her into his lap.

"Uh, no," she said, rising smoothly, one hand lifting in a warding off gesture. "Wash, I know that's you in there, but I'm still lookin' at Jayne. So, 'til this is sorted out, no." Her brows furrowed slightly. "In fact, you're sleepin' in your old bunk tonight."

"But, Zoe-" His eyes grew huge as the true horror of his situation dawned on him.

"What if you swap back? Want me to wake up with Jayne, really Jayne, next t' me?"

He shuddered, then nodded. "Got it. Good point."

Then, because his mind did tend to wander down all those 'what if' paths, he asked, "What if we don't ever swap back? I mean, we don't know what caused this in the first place."

She crossed her arms over her chest, pursing her lips, and giving her head a small shake. "Let's give it some time. Might right itself any moment."

Wash blinked, tanned cheeks paling a bit. "Oh, hey." He pointed at the co-pilot's seat. "Better have Jayne sitting there when we land. Just in case."

------------

That 'what if' question looks like it's really gonna need to be addressed, he thought, as he woke up for the third day in his old pre-Zoe bunk. Staring forlornly at the ceiling, he contemplated spending the rest of his life in Jayne's body. It wasn't a bad one, though he kept bumping his head going through hatches, still not used to the extra height. Strong, in real good shape. Not as quick in the hand/eye department, but hey, not shabby, either.

The problem was Zoe. God, he missed her. He constantly had to curb his impulse to follow her around the ship like a love-sick kid. It was even worse than when she loathed him, when he first signed on. Because, he knew exactly what he was missing now, boy howdy, did he ever. And while she was being gentle and kind, she was definitely keeping her distance. And sometimes, he caught her watching Jayne, in his body, expression unreadable, and this made him anxious, and maybe even jealous, but how could you be jealous of yourself? But the thought of making love to his wife in another man's body made his stomach churn. Really. There was churning and even twisting. Or maybe he was just hungry. This body seemed to need constant fueling. And sudden bursts of furious movement.

He hopped up and dressed, his own briefs, a little tight, but Jayne didn't have any, a pair of Jayne's jeans, and an aloha shirt, which fit loosely on his real body, but closely on this one. He stuffed his feet into Jayne's boots, and clomped up the ladder.

He went to the bridge first, to check their course, and they were good. Then, stomach growling loudly (Jayne's body did everything loudly), he headed down to the kitchen. No one else was around yet, so he just stood at the counter, scarfing up some cold left-overs from dinner. He was washing up his dishes and utensils, when Jayne came in. They both stopped and stared at one another, assessing the condition of the other's body. Wash noted Jayne had on a pair of his (Wash's) cargo pants, but one of his own t-shirts, which didn't fit as tightly on Wash's torso.

They grunted at one another. Wash finished drying his dishes, and Jayne went to the refrigerator, rooting around in it for something to eat. And, he kept doing it, that thing, that thing that drove Wash right up the wall. Apparently, insisting that Jayne wear briefs while wearing Wash's pants might not have been the wisest thing. The man was continually reaching down to tug at the crotch of his pants, and even to adjust himself. Wash's self. Oh, lao tian ye, whatever.

"Jayne, quit that," Wash hissed.

Jayne looked up at him – and that was another reminder of a constant dissonance, everyone on board looking up at him – with a puzzled expression. Wash shot a quick, squicked glance down to Jayne's busy hand. The man followed the glance, then grinned wickedly. "What, this?" Instead of leaving off, the guy shifted his grip to a full-on grab accompanied by an insolent roll of his fingers.

Oh, so very bizarre to watch one's own face leer, one's own hand shamelessly grope oneself.

"Yes, that," Wash snapped, swiftly lifting his gaze to somewhere near the ceiling. "Keep your gorram hands to yourself."

"What, y' mean like this?" Jayne reached for Wash's – no, his own body's – crotch, and Wash jumped back, knocking his hand away.

"Quit!" he yelped. "Just... quit. Just... don't do that where I can- where anyone can see you."

Jayne snickered, then dropped his gaze to Wash's – his own – groin. He said seriously, "But ya see, though, why m' ol' John Thomas there needs his freedom."

"What?" Was Jayne really trying to engage him in a conversation about his penis?

Jayne threw him a skeptical glance. "Don't tell me y' didn't look."

"No, I didn't look!" Wash said, scandalized. Then he found himself clarifying, "Well, yeah, I looked. But I didn't look look! A guy's gotta piss sometime!" With growing alarm, he asked, "Did you look?"

"Hell, did more 'n look."

Wash's hands flew toward his ears. "Oh, y' know, I just can't hear this!"

"Ain't my fault things came up, li'l man," Jayne insisted, shaking his head. He added thoughtfully, "Though maybe should stop callin' y' that." Then he asked, "'Does your pecker always run on hard burn?"

If Wash were wearing his own skin, he knew his face would be quite pink. While flustered, he tried to answer with some dignity. "I have a healthy libido, if that's what you mean."

"Hell fire, Wash, mine's healthy. Yours..." He shook his head in wonderment. "Might be finally sussin' out what Zoe sees in ya."

"Hey, there's a lot more to our relationship than sex," Wash protested. "Respect and, and love and, and-"

"An' sex." Weird, weird to see Jayne's lewd smile bend his own lips. "'Member, your bunk's right next t' mine." He lifted one hand to tug suggestively on an earlobe.

Wash opened his mouth, then closed it, aghast. Finally, he managed to force out, "I gotta do a course check."

Jayne's salacious snickers, carried on his own distorted voice, followed him out of the galley and up the corridor toward the bridge.

Apparently Jayne was thinking about that 'what if' question as well. Because that afternoon, when they landed on a pretty little moon to exchange some cases of brewer's yeast for some very nice semi-precious gem stones, he took off, very heavily armed, to find some open space. The sound of faint gunfire carried to Serenity on a light breeze, and a couple hours later, Jayne trudged back, exhausted and sunburnt, sweaty blond hair sticking up every which way. A thoughtful scowl creased his face.

The rest of the crew, sitting in the shade cast by Serenity's prow, drinking cool bottles of the local ale (or soda, in River's case), watched him come. Wash winced at the state of his skin, and turned to Zoe.

"I'll get it," she said, before he could open his mouth. She handed him her ale bottle, and rose, dusting off the seat of her trousers, as she headed their bunk and the tube of sunburn cream in the cabinet over the sink.

Mal cracked open a fresh bottle, holding it up to Jayne as he came even with them. The man stared at it a moment, then took it, and tilting his head back, chugged down about half of it in three swallows. Lowering the bottle, he let out a long, rumbling belch. Then he sat, arranging his armory neatly around him as he continued to take swigs from the bottle. Wash thought to caution him about what drinking any kind of alcohol that quickly did to his head, but decided not.

"So," Mal said to the man he paid to be his gunman.

Jayne slanted a look at him, then turned away, squinting off toward the green hills on the horizon. "Vera 'bout knocked me on m' ass." He took another slug of his ale.

"A little more time with the weights will offset that," Book offered gently.

"Flesh or steel," River murmured, staring intently at a dandelion flower she held inches from her eyes. "Penelope and Penelope wait faithful." She frowned ferociously. "There is no dog." She turned to glare at her brother. "Simon, there should be a dog."

"Sorry, little one," Mal broke in, before Simon could promise her a puppy to sooth her. "No pets on my boat."

"You know," Simon said, peering at Jayne's violently flushed face. "I have some burn ointment in-"

"'S all right," Zoe said, striding back down the ramp. "Got some here." She went to Jayne, offering him the tube. He took it, but then just stared at it in puzzlement.

"Apply liberally," Wash suggested, circling his bearded face with his hand. He gave Zoe back her beer as she sat next to him again. "Especially the nose and the tips of your ears. Might wanna slather on sunscreen next time you're gonna be outside awhile."

"Don't sunburn," Jayne growled.

"No, but I do," Wash assured him. "And you're wearin' my face."

Grumbling, Jayne twisted open the tube, squirted some of the white cream onto his fingers, and began smearing it over his nose and cheeks.

"Here, let me," Kaylee said, and she knee-walked over to sit in front of him, taking the tube and gently spreading the medicine over his skin. He submitted to her ministrations, closing his eyes, the scowl easing from his features. Kaylee avoided the bottom half of his face to keep from getting the cream in his mouth as he started speaking again.

"Slicker 'n snot, with the smaller pieces, though." One corner of his mouth turned up smugly. "Beat my own personal best with the semi-automatics." Eyes still shut, he managed to get his ale bottle to his lips, lifting his chin, guzzling down the last of the brew. Kaylee took advantage, and got some cream along his neckline.

Mal grunted, absorbing the information, pondering whether he should switch his merc from the category of heavy artillery to surgical strike. Might have to do a general reconfiguration of the troops, if this swap stuff went on much longer. Wasn't like he was gonna put Jayne off the ship, even if he wasn't as useful in Wash's smaller, less muscular body. Could still shoot. Still had, recalling him taking Wash down those first few moments in Zoe's bunk, some of his fighting moves. 'Sides, figure Zoe'd have his guts for garters if he tried to put Wash's body off the ship, no matter who was piloting it. She'd wanna keep both Wash and Jayne close, a weirdly matched set, in case the swappy thingie wore off.

He rose, taking in a last deep breath of warm, grassy air, and declared, "Enough settin' 'round, people. Got a schedule t' keep."

His crew started collecting themselves, gathering empty ale and soda bottles. Jayne wavered a bit as he stood up again, the ale, chugged down, on top of his recent exertion, having a loosening affect. He peered over at Wash, and informed him, "Yesu, Wash, but you're a cheap date."

"Fair enough," Wash returned. "But I ain't easy."

"Hell, man," Jayne leered, teeth extra white looking in his glossy, deep red face. "'M already in your pants."

Everyone, even Wash, cracked up, although River's laughter was about half a beat behind, and she may well not have been laughing at what the rest of them were.

The fifth day, it was Mal that was edgy and out of sorts. They had a meet arranged that afternoon with a guy named Colliers. They'd done business with him a number of times before, and he'd always been a little difficult and shifty to deal with. But recently, there'd been rumors that his business style had gone beyond shifty, sliding into coercive.

"It's that skiff," Wash said to the others assembled on the bridge, rasping the edge of his bearded jaw with the taloned toes of his tyrannosaur. "It's that armed skiff he's replaced his port shuttle with. It's gone to his head, and he thinks he's a real pirate now." He reached out with the T-Rex, making vaguely threatening gestures at the triceratops.

"Could just take a pass on this one, sir," Zoe said, representing the side of reason, from her perch on the console.

Jayne, lounging in the co-pilot seat, the skin on his nose pink and peeling, idly cleaned his nails with his sheath knife. Representing the side of greed, he reminded, "Energy weapon power packs. Good money. Great resale value."

Wash glanced at his wife, whom he hadn't kissed practically since the dinosaurs went extinct, and who could be walking into a firefight in the next few hours. Then he peered up at the captain, standing between the seats, arms crossed over his chest, glaring out at the dusty little moon they were rapidly approaching. "So, all ya gotta do is figure out how to get a crate of power packs – provided said goods actually exist – off an an armed skiff manned by a dirty double-crosser and a handful of bully-boys."

Mal turned his gaze away from the moon, and to his pilot, then to his gunman, and back again, jaw working.

"Got a notion."

-----------

"They're here, captain," Billy called in the open hatch of the skiff. Unnecessarily, as the retired combat vessel had excellent scanning equipment, and Colliers had been watching the hovercraft approaching for the last couple minutes. He rose from the pilot's seat, and sauntered out the hatch, joining his four crewmen outside. Nguyen, Black and Milton all glanced over at him, nodding respectfully, and he gave them a quick inspection. Yes, they were all appropriately armed and dangerous looking. Billy, well, Billy was certainly armed, but at nineteen, even with the bushy black 'stache crawling across his lip, didn't quite manage dangerous.

The mule swung up onto the flat, coming to rest about 10 meters from the skiff. Colliers was surprised to see Reynolds' pilot at the stick. He'd only met the feng le goof-ball once before, as they usually kept him tucked away on Serenity, probably for his own protection. He winced as the guy bounced the mule hard on the landing. Jayne Cobb, a big, ornery mercenary he'd met a number of times, lunged forward from his seat in the back to mess with something on the control panel. Both Reynolds, in the passenger's seat, and – Wash, that was his name – Wash slapped his hand away. He couldn't make out the words, but the noise of their squabbling came to him clear once the mule's fans slowed. He shook his head scornfully, smug with the knowledge of his crew's professionalism. On that thought, he realized that Reynolds had foolishly neglected to bring his first mate. Rather a relief, that, as Zoe could make a guy's manhood try to crawl up inside his body with one sideways look. Plus, without her at Reynolds' back, his plan had a much greater chance of succeeding. Was a simple plan, really, where he ended up with both his goods and their payment.

As the hovercraft's fans fitfully stuttered to a halt, Reynolds jumped to the ground, and snapped at his gunman to get moving. The guy was pointing over the pilot's shoulder at the panel in front of him, grousing about something. The pilot let out an impressive stream of obscenities, fiddled with the controls, and the craft shut down completely. Cobb, shaking his head, clambered out of the back seat, momentarily catching his his gun belt on one of the tie-down hitches. As he worked himself loose, Wash leaped nimbly from from the driver's seat, absently tugging at the crotch of his pants as his eyes swept over the skiff, Colliers' four gunmen, and Colliers himself. Spotting him looking at him, he grinned like a loon. "Howdy!" he yelled, waving.

Colliers blinked. Pilots were known for their eccentricity, but Reynolds had scored himself a doozy here. The guy's hair stood up in a corona around his head, and his baggy, short sleeved shirt could sear retinas if a man looked at it too long. He turned his attention to the approaching Reynolds, his long, brown coat flapping behind him, his revolver obvious on his right hip. Cobb, having untangled his belt, trotted a few paces to catch up with him, then fell in behind his right shoulder.

"How's business?" Reynolds greeted him, smiling amiably.

"Good, real good," Colliers replied. "And you?"

"Can't complain."

"Care to step into my office, Captain Reynolds?" Colliers turned slightly, gesturing toward his skiff.

"Now, she's a pretty little thing, ain't she? Don't mind if I do."

Colliers led them to the boat, stopping at the entrance, indicating that they should precede him. Reynolds did, followed by Cobb, who flinched a bit when stooping through the hatch.

The cargo space in the skiff was small, as it really wasn't designed as any kind of a transport at all. But it was amply large enough for a a meter square crate and three men, even if one of them was Cobb. Colliers, all business now, popped the lock on the case, lifting the lid, letting it swing all the way around on its hinges. Inside, under a clear layer of cushioned wrap lay three dozen black battery packs, 20 by 10 by 4 centimeters, designed to power a number of lethal energy weapons.

Reynolds pulled a volt meter out his coat pocket. He inquired mildly, "Y' don't mind, do ya? If I check out the charge levels?"

"Be my guest," Colliers replied, with a sweeping hand gesture. All the power packs were new, fully charged, so it was no skin off his nose if Reynolds wanted to check every one in the box.

Reynolds swept aside the top layer of wrap, then plucked a pack off the top layer, stuck the gauge first in the primary connection which supplied the power for the actual energy discharge, and then switched it to the auxiliary link, which supplied the moderate nine volts that fueled the weapon's targeting system. He nodded, showing he was satisfied with both. He replaced the gauge in his pocket, and the power pack in the crate.

"So," Colliers began, but he broke off, brows rising when Cobb grunted, and without a by-your-leave, reached down into the crate and started pawing down through the layered goods. He opened his mouth to protest, then held off, figuring if Reynolds didn't mind the guy messing with what supposedly was shortly going to be his property, it would be best if he keep quiet about it himself.

The gunman dragged his hand out of the crate, clutching three power packs in his huge mitt. Straightening, he brought them up to his nose and sniffed at them. Colliers glanced at Reynolds, saw he was squinting a bit, perhaps working on holding his face expressionless. Then Cobb separated one of the packs out, turned it until the the power connections were on top, then brought it up to his face again. This time, he licked it.

Colliers gaped, as the big man winced a bit, pulling the pack away from his mouth, turning his hand so he could rub his lips with the back of his wrist. He dropped the pack back into the crate, and lifted a second one up toward his mouth.

"Jayne," Reynolds said repressively.

Cobb licked the second pack, right across the auxiliary hook up, winced again, and tossed the pack back in the crate again. Then, the guy looked up at his captain, and bothered to reply. "Whut?"

"Thought I told you 'bout lickin' the merchandise b'fore payin' for it."

"Like th' way it tingles when they got a good charge up," the big merc mumbled. Hand to God, guy seemed dumber every time Colliers met him. Reynolds must be letting him take too many blows to the head.

A sudden hullabaloo from outside turned all three men's heads toward the hatch. Squalls for help came distinctly through the rest of the noise.

"Ah. That would be my pilot," Reynolds stated mildly. "Best check on him." He moved to the exit, Colliers following, irritated and bemused. Reynolds took a couple paces outside the ship, then stopped, fists on his hips, shaking his head.

"What the hell?" Colliers demanded, staring. Black, Milton and Nguyen, howling with laughter, clutching one another for support, were simply watching as Billy, red faced with fury and effort, tried to lay his hands on Reynolds' surprisingly elusive pilot. The smaller man, ludicrous shirt fluttering around him, flitted to and fro, always just beyond Billy's grasp. If he hadn't been squealing so loud for help, Colliers could have gotten the impression he was enjoying himself.

"Your man seems a might riled," Reynolds commented, after watching a short while. "Think y' could get him settled so we can see what's what?"

"Billy!" Colliers roared, striding over toward the melee, through the cloud of dust they were kicking up. "What the hell is going on?" He grabbed his gunman by the upper arm and swung him away from the other man. He thought, for a second, Billy was going to take a swipe at him. Fortunately, the youngster managed to control this impulse toward employer-bashing.

"He grabbed my ass!" Billy shouted, beet red, chest heaving, mustache bristling with indignation. "This cao qingwa de liumang grabbed my ass! With both hands!"

"Ain't my fault," the blond man whined, wary eyes on Billy, poised to dart one way or the other. "Zoe's on her ladies' time, an' I ain't dipped m' wick for days!"

"Jwash!" Reynolds yelled, but his outrage was overwhelmed by Billy's, who lunged, bellowing, toward the randy sha gua. Who managed, not only to dodge his opponent, but to trip him up, and plant him, face first, in the dust.

Colliers and Reynolds waded into the mix, Colliers hauling Billy over to the rest of his crew, telling them to sit on him if need be, while Reynolds collared his pilot, and told him to stay by the mule and to keep his hands to himself. Crew under control, both men turned back toward the skiff. Cobb stood in the hatchway, arms crossed over his huge chest, scowling, surprisingly, at his own shipmate. He stepped aside to let the two captains in, glowering silently as they wrapped up their business, Reynolds handing Colliers a pouch of platinum. Colliers counted this out, Reynolds smiling patiently, while his mercenary fiddled with the buckle on his gun belt.

Payment confirmed and tucked away in the breast pocket of Colliers' jacket, Reynolds and Cobb stooped, each grabbing a handle on the ends of the crate. Hoisting it up, Reynolds grunting a bit under the weight, they hauled it out of the skiff. Colliers followed, and as he emerged from the boat, his men spread a bit, trailing behind him. The pilot, following orders, had stuck close to the mule, but now, as Reynolds and his gunman approached him, he shifted to one side, getting out of their way. Colliers decided the time was ripe.

"Now, boys," he said clearly.

The next five seconds went astonishingly awry.

One: He sensed his men moving into action around him. Reynolds' pilot's hand darted to the small of his back, under the hem of his freakish shirt.

Two: The semi-automatic pistol suddenly in the pilot's hand barked.

Three: Screaming, clutching at his knee, Black went down. The pistol barked again.

Four: Nguyen lurched backwards, twisting with the blow of the bullet to his right shoulder. Again, the automatic spoke.

Five: Milton's revolver flew from his ruined hand.

The sixth second was the most horrific, as that pistol was now pointed straight at his own face. He heard, to his left, the sound of Billy's revolver being cocked, eerily echoed by Reynolds' own.

"Now, son," the man drawled kindly, "y' really don't wanna do that. Just get your boss and your own self killed."

"Drop it, Billy," Colliers rasped, mouth suddenly bone dry, his hands edging for the sky, truly freaked by the murderous grin on the pilot's genial face. The groans of pain from his gunmen underscored how very south this caper had gone. A thump told him Billy had followed orders.

As Cobb (who had, to add another layer of bizarreness to the event, just hunkered down a bit as the bullets flew), lugged the goods to the hovercraft, Reynolds strolled back toward him, holstering his revolver. Wash countered his movement, angling himself so he could keep a clear shot at both Colliers and Billy and the various men writhing in the dirt. Corners of his mouth quirked up in a wry smile, Reynolds reached up and took the pouch of platinum from Colliers' breast pocket. He weighed it in his palm, then opened it, fished out two coins, and dropped them in his own pocket.

"Ammo's 'spensive these days," he explained. Then, squinting amiably, he tucked the pouch back into Colliers' jacket, as he said, "Don't reckon we'll be doin' business together again, Colliers. Don't reckon, once word gets out 'bout today's li'l dust up, too many folks 'll be linin' up t' deal with ya."

He sauntered off, helping Cobb lift the crate into the mule once he got there. He then sprang into the front passenger seat as Cobb settled down behind the stick. The pilot, eye and gun still on Colliers and his crew, hopped up to stand in the rear passenger area.

"Hey, Billy," he yelled. "Nice, firm ass. Real girly." And he groped himself extravagantly.

"Oh, for crying out loud!" Cobb hollered, punching the mule into sudden forward motion, sending Wash sprawling onto the back seat. The vehicle slewed around, high-tailing it for Serenity and safety.

Colliers stared after them for a very long, gobsmacked moment, then snapped, "Billy, see what you can do for the others. I'm gonna go bring them down." Images of high caliber bullets streaming from his skiff's machine gun, ripping Reynolds and his crew and his mule to shreds, danced alluringly in his brain.

"Send a shot right up their asses for me, Captain!"

Colliers dashed into the skiff, slapping the button to close the hatch. As it hissed shut behind him, he slid into the pilot's seat, fingers darting nimbly over the controls to power it up.

Nothing happened.

He tried again, with greater emphasis, but again, nothing happened.

Befuddled, frustrated almost to the point of screaming, he carefully, slowly, went through the start up routine for the third time. He got zip. Somehow, the whole sequence, the whole panel, had been reconfigured.

Grinding his teeth, he coded in the diagnostic function, and at least this time, as he glared at the comp screen, he got a response.

"Game Over. Sorry. You Lose. Insert Two-Bits. Try Again."

-----------

Not even Wash's haranguing an unrepentant Jayne could dim Mal's glow.

"Ta ma de, Jayne," the pilot groused, as he wound the mule down to a halt in the cargo bay. "Everyone's gonna think I'm a total perv once this gets out."

"Hell, Wash," Jayne said, swinging off the vehicle, "everyone from here t' Beaumonde thinks you're a total perv already."

"They do not either." Wash turned his dark scowl onto his captain. "Mal, tell him everyone doesn't think I'm a perv."

"Can't say as to everyone, Wash. Go on up and take us out of the world."

Which meant, of course, that Jayne had to go up too, as Wash still insisted on the buddy-system whenever he was doing any real flying. Tromping up the stairs to the catwalk together, their nattering continued.

"Look, ya gotta stop, okay? Just stop doing things with my body that make me look bad or, or creepy or perverted."

"Whatcha gonna do if I don't, huh? Ain't neither you nor Zoe's gonna do any real harm to me walkin' 'round in this."

"I'll- I'll shave."

"Wh-what?"

"I'll shave. Everything. Everywhere."

"Now, Wash, no need to get all excitable-like."

Zoe appeared at Mal's elbow, and he, barely, managed to suppress a start.

"Went well, sir?"

"Yes, indeed. Indeedy do do do," he responded, perhaps a tad giddy. "Could get used to this particular arrangement."

"Don't advise it, Captain," Zoe said with a quelling look.

"Well, hell, Zoe. Don't they say it's what's inside what counts? Is Wash less Wash if he looks like Jayne?"

"Won't argue on that too far. However, happen to have a particular attachment to the whole Wash-body configuration." She narrowed her eyes at him. "Haven't ever seen him in the altogether, have you, sir?"

"Can't- can't say as much, Zoe, no."

"Well, then, sir, I'm not going to go much further but to say the whole arrangement is rather mind boggling."

"Boggling," Mal said weakly.

"Yes, sir. Boggling."

"Shut up and help me stash the cargo."

"Yes, sir."

The sixth day, post-swap, they parked themselves on another little moon, this time to load on four dozen large cases of contraband flower bulbs. New cargo meant shifting old cargo, and Wash had some fun, using the brute strength of Jayne's body to shift crates he would have been staggering under in his own. Grunting, he lifted a box, stacking it neatly on top of a pile nearly as high as his head. He turned, and almost barreled over River, who had appeared silently behind him.

"Nyah!" he yelped, skipping around her, barely catching himself. Strength, Jayne had. But his own body was just a little quicker.

She looked up at him unconcernedly, then turned her dreamy gaze back to the crates he had just uncovered. "Not mystical," she murmured. "Not natural. Simply... electro-mechanical."

"What is, River-bird?" He'd discovered, if he gave her time and didn't demand linearity, he could sometimes piece together what she was trying to communicate.

"Transmigrational trigger." She cocked her head. "Pandora's dilemma."

He followed her gaze, and found himself looking at a metal crate labeled 'MacGuffin Neurometronics, Inc. R and D Department.' He felt things go clickity-clickity-click in his brain, and then he was hollering, Jayne's big voice filling the cargo bay, "Zoe! Mal! Jayne! She found it! River found it!"

Zoe, Mal and Jayne, scattered around the bay, set down whatever box or crate they were shifting, and gathered around Wash, who was excitedly dragging a long rectangular metal case into a clear spot. Mal recognized it as some electronic gear he was to drop on Beaumonde when they lit down there in a week or so.

Simon, wary ears having heard River's name bellowed in agitation by a loud voice he still perceived as Jayne's, trotted from the infirmary to the bay. There he found his sister on the outskirts of the group gathered around the crate. No one was paying any particular attention to her, and when he went to her and gently put his arm around her shoulder, she simply turned her head to smile placidly up at him.

Wash was saying, "We opened it. Jayne and I opened it. And that night the swap happened." Pale eyes wide with excitement, he demanded, "We gotta open it again! See if we can figure it out!"

"You opened it?" Mal glowered at the two men. "An' y' thought this was a good idea exactly why?"

Both men's eyes slid to River, standing nestled under her brother's arm. Simon shifted a bit uneasily, but she simply nodded, and said, "Unknowing, the hands grasp, the maw consumes. But in the belly, the beasts flourish."

Mal offered no further comment at the moment, simply giving his crewmen a look that promised a nice, long chat later. Both shifted back an uneasy step. Mal held out his hand to Zoe, and she placed an EM crowbar in in. Taking it, Mal bent to set its edge into the crate's top seam. He paused when River gave a startled squeak, grabbed Simon's arm, and dragged him, stumbling, up the steps to the first landing. There, she stopped, and gave everyone a serene smile, petting her confused brother's arm where her fingers had pinched his bicep.

Mal glanced up at Zoe, who gave a suggestion of a shrug, and shaking his head, he triggered the crowbar. The clasps of the metal crate clicked open, Mal rose from his crouch, and he and Zoe lifted off the lid, leaning it on one edge behind the crate. Mal flipped up the top layer of packing foam, and both Jayne and Wash edged forward to peer inside.

"Oh, hey!" the dark man blurted. "It wasn't doing that when we looked at it!" All the readout screens glowed, lines of varicolored lights oscillating in regular waves.

Mal turned a jaundiced eye on his crewmen. "So, who thought it was a good idea t' fiddle with the gizmos?"

Both men shook their heads. Wide eyed innocence worked lots better with Wash's face, as Jayne asserted, "Didn't fiddle with it none, Mal. Just looked. Never touched it."

"Oh, hey! When you picked up the lid, after it slid back. You put your hand on top of the foam. Right there."

"No way you makin' this my fault, li'l man!" Wash's body didn't do so well with the looming as his face did with the innocence, but he gave it a shot.

"No, no, I'm just sayin'," Wash soothed, fending him off with a gentle paw. "That button there, the big one, just under where you put your hand, maybe that's the on switch."

"An' maybe it's the self-destruct button," Mal snapped.

"Why would a personality transferring machine have a self-destruct button, Mal?" Wash queried, dark brows furrowed quizzically.

"Why would ya have a personality transferrin' machine, at all, in the first place?" Mal retorted.

"Oh, I can think of all kindsa reasons," Wash enthused, pale blue eyes lighting up as various notions danced through his head. "You could-"

"Bizui," the captain demanded and Wash did. Muscles in his jaw working, Mal glared back and forth between Wash and Jayne.

"Say we push the button, sir," Zoe said calmly. He glanced at her, jerked a single nod, then bent and pushed the button. The machine powered down. Both Jayne and Wash froze, expressions intent. After a long tense moment, Wash sighed.

"Nothin'," he said despondently. Jayne began to curse bitterly under his breath.

"Um," Simon said, as he followed his sister skipping back down the stairs. Mal stopped her with a gentle hand on her arm as she bent forward to peer intently at the inactive device.

"No touching," she assured him, looking up into his face, large eyes earnest. "The peregrinations are already excessive."

"I have an idea," Simon offered awkwardly.

"Please, Doctor, do tell," Mal snipped. "'Cuz not only am I plum out, I never had that many to start out with."

"Well, presuming this machine does, in some way affect brainwave patterns – which, to be perfectly honest, I don't see how it could. I've never heard any mention of any type of any such devices in any of the literature-"

"Simon," Zoe said quietly.

"Yes, well." He nervously cleared his throat. "The... exchange of... personalities took place while Wash and Jayne were sleeping. It's possible that the transfer can occur only when- when the subjects are in a certain part of their sleep cycle." He made circling motions near his own head with one hand. "When their brains are involved in a particularly receptive pattern."

"So, so give us a knock-out pill or shot or somethin'," Jayne demanded, clutching at the young man's vest with a hand not that much smaller than his real one. Simon peeled it off him, and straightened his clothing with a sharp tug and a glare.

"It's not that simple," he stated. "A drug induced unconsciousness is not the same as natural sleep." He reached up to rub the back of his neck. "Perhaps, now that the machine is off, no longer sending out whatever... impossible... electronic waves, your minds will... return to their proper places when you reach a specific part of your sleep cycle."

"So, so, we should just go to sleep? Think that will work?" Wash looked at him with anxious, yet hopeful, eyes. Simon found the look disturbingly appealing on a face he usually found himself glaring at in disgust. He hated to squash the hope, but he had to be honest.

"This situation is so utterly preposterous, I don't know what to think. I'm simply putting forth my best hypothesis given the data I have."

"What kinda gorram doctor are ya, anyways?" Jayne muttered, scrunching fair brows down in a scornful scowl.

"I'm so sorry, W-Jayne," Simon replied acerbically. "I realize now it was a huge mistake to skip my Mind Transference 101 class."

Jayne grunted. "Damn straight."

That night, Wash had to do about a gazillion push-ups and even about half a gazillion abdominal crunches, before he was worn out enough to think about falling asleep. He tried very hard not to think about what Jayne might be doing to relax enough to be able to drop off. He crawled into bed, and ran navigational calculations in his head, until, finally, he slipped into the first stage of sleep, sinking down, then cycling back up...

The smell of gun oil brought him all the way out of sleep. For the second time that week, he woke up in Jayne's bunk. Only this time...

"Yee hah!" he shrieked, bounding out of the bed, his hands, his own, his very own hands, clutching at his arms, his chest, verifying he was back where he belonged. He rushed to the mirror, and his true and proper face beamed giddily back at him in its reflection. Ai ya, he really needed to shave.

He spun, leaping across the cabin, to scramble up the ladder, squeezing through the hatch before it could open completely.

"Yes, yes, yes!" he yelled, dancing exultantly in the corridor. He heard whoops of joy coming from his old bunk, and Jayne popped out of the hatch, laughing dementedly. Spotting Wash, he leaped for him, grabbing him by the shoulders, and the two of them, hooting, guffawing, hopped around together in a small tight circle.

"Looks like it worked," Mal said, coming up the steps from the galley, where he and his first mate had been drinking liters of watchful midnight tea.

"Looks like," Zoe replied dryly. But she wasn't even trying not to grin at the dang fools waltzing in the corridor. Wash saw her, and hauled himself out of Jayne's grip, and flung himself toward her, babbling, "Don't punch, lambie-toes! It's really, truly me!"

Kaylee's head popped up out of the hatch to her bunk, peering down the corridor toward the ruckus. She saw that an unclobbered Wash had Zoe twined in his arms, and realized what had happened. "Oh, so, good, it worked," she said, with a sleepy, complacent grin. "Knew it would, if Simon said so." She yawned hugely. "Well, g' night, y'all. 'M back to bed." She ducked back down, the hatch closing behind her.

"Bed, yes, bed, bed, bed, bed," Wash chortled, as he took Zoe's hand, and walking backwards, led her toward their bunk. "I'm a whole week behind on my husbandly duties, I'll have to work extra special hard to catch up."

Laughing delightedly, shaking her head at his foolery, Zoe allowed him to lead her away. Jayne and Mal looked after them, and when the hatch to their bunk clanked shut, Jayne grunted.

"Hell, iffen I'd known just actin' like a complete feng le sha gua was all it took, woulda had me some days ago." Shaking his head in disgust, Jayne headed for his bunk, grumbling, rolling his shoulders, "Don't think Wash took proper care. 'M all... edgy-like." He dropped down the entrance to his bunk, still open after Wash exited it. The hatch clunked closed behind him.

"Now, that went well," Mal told the empty corridor around him, dusting off his hands. "For a change." He, too, took himself to bed.

His wife welcomed Wash home so well and thoroughly, he thought he was gonna pass out. After, wrapped in her arms, smiling, he drifted off to sleep in his true and proper body, in his true and proper place.

He woke again, with a little start, just before ship's dawn, relaxing when he found he was still in his own body, in his own snug bed. Zoe warmed him, sleeping on her side with her back to him. He spooned up behind her, curling his arm over her, his hand lightly cupping her lower breast, a configuration they often slept in. He drew in a long, slow breath, grateful for her familiar scent filling him with joy and relief and, okay, some burgeoning lust. He wiggled his hips a bit, arranging things so he wouldn't commit egregious poking.

He felt her breathing shift, then she stiffened in his arms, just for a moment. In the next moment, he found himself pinned on his back, Zoe's hand on his throat, squeezing, as she glared down at him in furious outrage. He tried frantically to remind her he was him again, but all he could manage were some squeaky gargling noises.

The hatch to their bunk crashed open, and Mal, naked, was sliding down the ladder, yelling, "Don't hurt him, sir, he thinks you're me!"

Zoe looked over at Mal, then down at herself, then sprang back, away from Wash, off their bed, an expression of utter horror on her face. She snatched up the blanket, wrapping it tightly around herself, a stream of foul Chinese pouring from her mouth.

Clutching his throat, coughing, Wash could only stare, wide-eyed, gaze flicking back and forth between them, as icy realization dawned.

"You okay, honey?" Mal asked as he paced toward the bed, which was all manner of creepifying.

"Good, I'm good," he rasped, waving the nude Mal, aw hell, Zoe off. He rolled out of bed, grabbing a pair of pants, and scampered up and out the hatch, still naked.

"Where you going?" Mal and Zoe's voices chorused up after him.

Hopping on one foot as he dragged his pants on, he hollered down, "Beaumonde! We gotta get that thing off this ship ASAP!" Striding to Kaylee's bunk, he hammered on the hatch, yelling, "Get up, Kaylee! We're goin' hard burn – now! – and you gotta keep us from blowing up!"

Then he sprinted for the bridge.

---

Chinese translations

ai ya – darn, damn
bizui – shut your mouth
cao qingwa de liumang – frog humping punk
feng le – crazy
gouzazhong – mongrel
hundan – jerk, bastard
lao tian ye – God
renci de Fozu – merciful Buddha
sha gua – fool
ta ma de – damn it