jebbypal

Title: Volatile Compounds
Fandoms: Firefly/Burn Notice.
Related story: Dangerous Propositions
Author notes: So, [livejournal.com profile] sabaceanbabe, her hubby and I were rewatching some Burn Notice tonight and I've been feeling like writing. As a result, Fi was kicking around in my head, and I decided to start a companion piece telling her side of Dangerous Propositions. Un-betaed in order to stimulate the frog into doing something (anything. ANYTHING).


Fiona entered the bar determined to get rid of her foul mood. She’d acquired a shipment specifically for Michael only to get stood up at their meet. There was no cut-out to be found, but a cryptic email from her brother indicated that Michael had found a better price elsewhere.

Gorram parliament. What was the “Verse coming to when even the military establishment was pinching on pennies in the middle of the war? It wasn’t like she was simply going to sit on the hardware until they loosened the purse strings. She knew Monty would be just as happy to coordinate a purchase for the Browncoats.

Still, she’d had a disagreement on terms with Stiles – ie, the man had decided that part of his cut included access to her jewels – resulting in a distinct lack of backup. And if she was headed to the Rim, it wasn’t like she could drop a word to Axe to have him look after her interests. Assuming that she trusted their shared concern for Michael, and the way he’d gone all in for the Core’s position, and more unseemly tactics, in the war.

Fi couldn’t stop her face from wrinkling at the thought (though the pungent odor drifting over from one of the saloon’s doxies could have contributed). Nothing soured her day more than being stood up by Westen and realizing she agreed with a boozehound purple belly.

The day started to look up when the bartender produced a top-end whiskey from one of Dyton’s best underground distilleries. If nothing else, good liquor could brighten the day a bit. She picked the bottle up, and used it to play up her assets as she surveyed the room. Not much to work with – a good number of the establishment’s customers surveyed her as just another piece of meat. If she had to deal with another of Stiles’ ilk, it would be too soon. The eyes of a few others took her in, and then abandoned her in fear. If they knew her enough to be that scared, odds were they might know one of her enemies and start to think they could profit from betraying her.

In the corner though, she found a prospect worthy of further consideration. His gaze appreciated her finer assets, but she could feel his gaze stutter every time it catalogued another (likely) weapon. Her grin widened. She hadn’t met many men that could drag their eyes off of her cleavage, ass, or legs long enough to look for weapons, much less identify even 5 of her hiding places. He dropped his head back towards his drink once she caught his eye.

Observant, but not defiant. The day was looking up. She took his measure as she crossed the sandy floor. Large, a bruiser. A match in height for Sam, but more muscle and less fat. Probably tied for body hair. Less greasy and more ape – but then again, she had nothing against animal intelligence as long as it could follow orders reasonably well.

“My friend stood me up,” she stated aloud when she reached his table. “Be a shame to drink this all on my lonesome. Drink like this is meant to be shared, don’t you think?” The bruiser started with a smirk that turned into a leer of appreciation. She was disappointed that she couldn’t immediately tell if it was for her low-cut overalls attached to the short-shorts, or for the Dyton whiskey.

“Gorram cryin’ shame for your missing friend.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll communicate my displeasure when I catch up to him,” Fi promised. Her free hand spasmed in anticipation of that discussion.

“A runner, eh?” The man had the presence of mind to make sure that the dregs he discarded from his beer mug didn’t splash on her or any of the neighboring patrons. So far, smarter than Stiles by a mile. Fi was having trouble even remembering why she’d taken Stiles on. Oh, right. Favor for Jesse. Some days, having allies in this business was more trouble than it was worth, she thought as she took the bottle back from the bruiser after he’d filled his glass. It had been too long since she’d tasted anything from the Cooley distillery. The day that place was lit up was just another in a long line of sins the Alliance had to pay for by her calculations.

Still, she was tired of talking about Michael. And now that she’d taken a seat, she couldn’t help but notice that the weapon the man had on the table was almost as beautiful as the whiskey she’d purchased. “Fine weapon you got there.” She tried not to look hurt when he pulled the gun further away.

“Don’t like discussing firearms with strangers – no matter how good their booze or ta tas are.”

Hmm, this one might be smarter than even Axe. “Fiona Glenanne, and you are?”

“Jayne Cobb.” The dare was written all over her face. One word about the name, and all he’d take from her would be her whiskey. Well, unless she was willing to part with something more personal. But he’d hold a grudge, and unlike Michael, she preferred to not start business dealings off in that manner.

Instead, she leaned closer, making sure he could see of her cleavage as he dared. “Well, Jayne, man with a gun like that must know how to use it.”

“Ain’t interested in joining any other man’s war.”

Now why in the ‘Verse was that philosophy so hard for Michael Westen to grasp? She’d almost wish that the spy would get a little religion – at this rate, that would give him more self-interest than what he currently had. “Neither am I, Jayne. However, I do love acquiring weapons and other gadgets to sell to folks making war. You aren’t opposed to profiting off war, are you?”

Both Jayne’s smile and answer warmed her heart. “Fiona, I ain’t opposed to profiting off nothing in this ‘Verse. What have you got in mind?”