Wheeling Gull Isle my fondest memory is getting stabbed with a variety of knives. (mtr.)

He didn't like the way the man was looking at him. It was kind-of like the hungry eyes of a zombie, not that Firefly would know. He'd recognize it as the mirror-image of himself if he'd ever seen his own face during a moment of lust but, so far nobody he'd been with had that kind of kink — then again, how would that even work? Find a tide pool? A puddle? Some ice? Why was he thinking about this right now when this gutter-rat Dragedan was crossing so close to his goddamn island.

Blah blah, something about pregnancy which made him snort; his gaze darkened as he imagined a more feminized version of this pale asshole ripe in the belly, but it just didn't appeal. Blame Firefly for ruining all those perfectly good hook-ups and potential families along the way, he certainly placed a lot of blame on himself. It was not something he wanted to think about.

Swain? You use some flowery language. Did someone drop you as a kid? He sniped, sounding more playful than he really meant to; he wanted to rip this guy limb from limb and decorate the high-points of the tidal flats with his body just to make his point clear—but, crap, what was the point he was getting at? I thought that guy died, what with having his throat crushed by that old lady— Caiaphas. He hadn't thought about her in a while and felt his gut twist.

Maybe it wasn't guilt he was feeling. Maybe it wasn't in his gut, but somewhere lower, which he was fighting hard not to focus on.