FIRST KISS: ZOË/WASH
Zoë and Wash's first kiss was after the job on Paquin. Wash
thought he
was going to like being a pirate. The previous afternoon he'd jogged
behind her for half a mile with the drugs, his eyes glued to the place
where her legs met her tightly clad backside, watching it jiggle up and
down. He'd twisted an ankle and stubbed four toes (or one toe four
times?) on the uneven terrain, but it had been more than worth it. He'd
gone to his bunk early--really early--and passed a sleepless night, but
still he couldn't get her out of his…uh…mind.
Besides, there
was nothing quite so hot as a woman who needed no taking care of
allowing you to take care of her. Assuming she didn't kill him for
trying to make the offer.
So the next morning Wash draped
himself across a hatchway as she approached. He stretched an arm up and
leaned on the casement puffing out his chest and filling the space to
impress her with his relatively-manly body.
"Hi," he said with his best women-want-me grin. It was still a work in
progress, but out in the black, a man makes do.
"The last man who blocked my path, I cut of one of his testicles and
fed it to him."
Wash
dropped his arm and tried a weak laugh. "You're kidding, right?" He
felt the little fellas yoink themselves upwards just in case.
Zoë just stood there and stared him through.
Wash
wondered if she was armed, then decided that it would only change the
manner of his demise, not the speed or the surety of it. He backed away
to
the side of the passageway, and Zoë marched through.
Wash chased after her. "Look, Zoë, Serenity's
a small
ship. We're out here together for better for worse, and I keep getting
this feeling we got off on the wrong foot."
"More like a mile 'n a foot," Zoë mumbled.
"Mal says you don't like me. He says you say I bother you. Is that it?"
"Must be. Capt'n's always right."
"See,
I knew you had a sense of humor in there…somewhere. Deep
down…somewhere. Maybe too deep down for other people to see,
but I see
it. I'm good with humor--and I think we can get along. Why
don't you
tell me what it is about me that bothers you, and I'll see what I can
do?"
Zoë looked him over from the straw zori, to the baggy cargo
shorts, to the tropical camp shirt (in colors chosen for the most
nauseous effect imaginable), to the plastic dinosaur sticking out of
the
floral breast pocket, to the shark tooth on a rope thong, to the cheesy
moustache, to the goofy cowlick.
"Well?" he asked.
"Still making my list."
"Okay, since we make Newhall in less than four days--"
Suddenly
she pushed him to the bulkhead, jammed her tongue down his throat and
her hand down his pants, and he went from zero to hardwood faster than
a
fastburn rocket shuttle. She wrapped finger and thumb around the base
of his dick, then stretched down on his balls with the rest of her hand.
It hurt. It terrified him. It felt amazing.
Real
men don't faint, he told himself as his vision began to dim with every
molecule of blood in his body congested below his navel.
Just in
time to salvage his masculine pride, she pulled away leaving an ache in
his crotch the size of a planetoid and glee that that women-want-me
smile thing might be working after all.
She plucked the brontosaurus out of his pocket and tossed it to the
deck. "Lose the moustache; it tickles."
"Sorry,"
said Wash. He smoothed it down. "Maybe if I twist my head--" He leaned
in for her mouth with his head cocked at a bizarre angle to spare her
nose.
She stopped him with a palm to his chest. "Nose tickling wasn't my
concern."
Wash
thought for a second, then his eyes widened. He stumbled as his foot
(the one with the bad ankle, of course) landed on the brontosaurus,
squishing it, then recovered and raced for his shaving kit.