FIC: Begin the Beguine (3/5)

[sharelle]

Title: Begin the Beguine (3/5)
Author: sharelle
Rating: PG-13
Setting: Pre-Series (but after the crew as we know it has all come together – minus Book, Simon and River)
Pairing(s): Wash/Zoë (with occasional friendship-y moments among others)
Written for: thegranddewru
Thank you: To ninamonkey for the terrific beta. And to edgechick816 for organizing the ficathon.
Previous installments: Part 1 // Part 2

Summary: The crew of Serenity is offered a very lucrative job by a wealthy aristocrat. But when Mal is prevented from accompanying Zoë to the negotiations, there's only one man suitable for the job.

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Begin the Beguine

by Sharelle

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Chapter 3 – Movement the Third

Dusk was settling over the capital city of Artemis as Shuttle II soared from where Serenity was berthed at Greendorne to the private docks at Elisha Thornton's sprawling estate. Wash whistled loudly as the property came into view. The house looked like an ancient Earth-That-Was chateau – there were stone pillars and balconies at all angles, and the light from every window twinkled like stars brought to land. The grounds were perfectly groomed, and dotted with fountains, flowers and Chinese lanterns.

"Would you get a load of that!" Wash said. "This goes a mite beyond fancy, Zoë. This is downright swanky." He bounced a little in his seat. "Wonder what kinds of extra perks you can swing out of that negotiation." He attempted to get Zoë's attention, turning to face her and waggling his eyebrows.

Zoë, however, continued to face forward. "Don't get too excited, pilot," she said. "Personally I'd rather not do any more business here than necessary."

"Right," Wash drawled a bit. "Because what sense would there be in enjoying an evening in the lap of luxury? As well as some of the benefits that come with being the messengers in this little venture?"

Zoë shot him a scornful look. "Men rich as Thornton tend to make their money one of two ways, Washburne: One is on the blood and sweat of hard-working, underpaid folks . . ."

"And the other?" Wash asked.

Zoë narrowed her glare. "War profiteer."

Wash's mouth fixed into a grim line. During his months on Serenity he'd learned better than to ask about details whenever Zoë's or Mal's stories turned to the war.

"Well, there you go," he said, trying to be placating. "No harm in trying to get a little extra platinum out of the deal with the very well-to-do, apparently unscrupulous man. We are valiant crooks who rob from the rich and take for ourselves, after all."

Zoë rolled her eyes a bit, but offered him a more patient look. "If all goes according to plan, we should be making plenty of coin on this job," she said. "No need to get greedy."

"Just a thought," Wash said. "Not like hanging around Thornton's veritable palace is going to be a hardship . . . so long as he's put together a decent buffet table." They traveled for the next few moments in silence, then Wash spoke up again. "Mind if I ask you something completely unrelated to the job?"

"Nothing personal, I hope," Zoë replied.

"Not overly," Wash said. "Why is it you're the only one onboard who doesn't call me Wash?"

Zoë looked at him again. Her expression was serious, as usual, but softer – almost puzzled. "Normally, I take to calling a man by his given name, Washburne. Either that or his title, pilot. Is there some offense you're taking to me addressing you as either one?"

"Oh, no," he responded. "It's not that – it's just that 'Wash' is my name. 'Washburne' is just . . . a longer version."

"There a difference?"

"Just the fact that I don't really answer to the second," Wash said. "Haven't for a while. Back in flight school there was a guy named Welbourne – dumb as a post, made Jayne look like Confucius. Anyway, our teachers kept mixing the two of us up at first. Believe me, that I took offense to. Having everyone just call me 'Wash' helped save my sanity . . . not to mention my grades."

Zoë gave a little huff of air which, if Wash didn't know any better, he would have sworn was the beginning of a laugh. "Fine," she said as she looked at him, "Wash."

Wash smiled and pulled the shuttle to the checkpoint near Thornton's private docks.

The image of a square-jawed security guard appeared on the shuttle's view screen. "Invitation, please," he prompted automatically. Wash took out their invitation, which had been printed from the wave Thornton had sent. He set it face-down onto the scanner, punched a few keys on the type-pad and hit 'send.' A few seconds later, the guard gave a polite nod. "Thank you, Mr. And Mrs. Asbach," he said. "A very pleasant evening to you."

As Wash guided the shuttle to the docking bay, Zoë gave him a look. With his eyes averted, he had a hard time determining whether she was amused or annoyed. "Mr. and Mrs.?" she asked.

Wash shrugged. "Just trying to stay inconspicuous," he said. "Something incognito that would fit in better at a fancy party." He looked at her, feeling a little more uncertain than usual under her scrutinizing gaze. "Sorry if it was presumptuous of me."

Zoë's eyes softened, as though she was dealing with a zhuàng nitwit who didn't know any better. "It's a fine cover," she said. "Posing as a married couple will cut down on questions."

As they disembarked and took the path through the garden toward the main house, Zoë led the way. Wash caught up to her quickly outside the shuttle and walked at her side. He imagined that, as a cover story, it probably wouldn't be such a bad one.

* * *

As he and Zoë joined the end of the line leading to the main ballroom, Wash was struck with a single thought: Nope. This isn't going to be anything like the socials at flight school.

For starters, some of these folks were so primly folded and buttoned and fastened into the many layers of their high-class attire, he seriously doubted there'd be any loosening of clothing by the end of the evening – no jackets draped over the chairs, no shoes kicked beneath the tables. What was more, if the symphonic music filtering out of the ballroom was any indication, the dancing probably wouldn't be of the sort to require such action. The notion kinda took some of the fun out of things.

When Wash and Zoë reached the front of the line, a pale young man stepped toward them and offered them a stiff, shallow bow. He straightened and gave his head a reflexive toss, slightly flipping his thick foppish hair from his brow. "Good evening, sir . . . madam," he said with a nod to each and a slightly priggish tone in his voice. "Invitation, please?"

Zoë passed him the card they had printed from Thornton's wave. Wash couldn't help but notice how calm she looked, just like always – no matter who she was dealing with. Out of her element or not, Zoë never failed to appear as though everything was going exactly according to plan.

The young man briefly scrutinized the invitation, then placed it into an ornate box on the table beside him. He offered Wash and Zoë another bored bow and turned to face the main ballroom.

"THE MISTER AND MISTRESS H. W. ASBACH."

He extended his hand to usher them into the party. Wash lifted his arm, and Zoë placed her hand on top of his. Together they entered the ballroom.

Prior to arrival, Wash had reminded himself over and over that it would probably be a bad idea to ogle the party, or the people attending, as though he'd never spent a minute among high society in his life. That reminder had become something of a mantra in his head as he and Zoë had trekked up the path between the shuttle docks and the main house. Nevertheless, Wash found himself staring around the ballroom, his mouth hanging open like it had dropped anchor.

He had never seen anything so opulent in his entire life. This room alone had to be more than three times the size of Serenity's cargo bay, and the lofty ceiling at least twice as high. There were thick scarlet curtains framing the doorways of two separate balconies. Beneath those hung extra sets of diaphanous white drapes, veiling the high doors and blowing lightly in the warm breeze coming from the outside. A multitude of tables circled the periphery of the room, strategically placed around a grand wooden dance floor. The music Wash had heard from the hallway was being played by a live orchestra, located beneath an ornate proscenium arch at the far end of the room. The entire ballroom was brightly lit by numerous lavish electric sconces, and one enormous, very old-fashioned crystal chandelier in the center of the ceiling.

"Whoa," he breathed. His head nearly tipped all the way back against its own volition. "Bù shàn."

Wash felt a soft touch on the side of his face. His head was brought level again and his mouth was gently eased shut. Zoë quirked an eyebrow as she drew his face into direct alignment with hers. "Think you can refrain from catching flies until after we've made contact with our highbrow employer, Wash?" she quietly whispered. She released him and turned to walk across the floor.

As his eyes followed her, Wash felt his mouth opening again. He snapped it shut so quickly his teeth clicked, then he hurried to catch up with her.

"Where'd you come up with the name, anyway?" Zoë asked as she smoothly lifted a flute of shimmerwine from the tray of one of the many circulating waiters. Once again, Wash was stricken by how natural she was able to act, regardless of the unfamiliar surroundings. He quickly attempted to follow her lead . . . and nearly overextended himself trying to reach for his own glass.

"Well, the 'H. W.' is obvious," Wash answered. "And the less complicated the fabrication, the easier to remember. I thought all professional criminals knew that."

"We do," Zoë replied wryly.

"As for 'Asbach'," Wash continued with a shrug. "Just another fella I knew in flight school. Somebody much better versed in duplicity than I am." He took a drink of his wine. "I figured the association would make it easier to remember."

Zoë nodded and her manner became all-business again. She scanned the room over the rim of her wine. Wash felt compelled to do the same; he raised his glass and tried to seem discreet as he peered around the ballroom. Trouble was: he had no idea what he was looking for.

"So which one is Thornton?" he asked under his breath, trying to keep his lips from moving too much.

Zoë regarded his attempt at espionage amusedly, then guided him toward a nearby table. She put her wine glass down; Wash followed suit. Zoë continued to scan the room as she explained. "The guests are almost finished arriving," she said. "It's likely the host will make as grand an entrance as possible once everyone is here."

"That seems logical," Wash replied with an animated nod. "Good thinking."

"It's what Inara said would most likely happen," Zoë admitted matter-of-factly. "She also said he'll probably have folks swarming around him for a good bit of the early evening – clambering for a bit of attention from the host. Once we ident Thornton, the best time to approach him will be when the herd thins a bit. If we make good on the discretion he's after, we'll make good on this job."

Wash and Zoë didn't have to wait long. Once all the guests had filed into the room and begun to casually socialize, the pale young man who had greeted them at the door made his way across the ballroom floor. As he reached the far end of the room, the orchestra faded into a decrescendo. Everyone in the crowd directed their attention to where he was now standing. Wash and Zoë picked up their drinks and moved a bit closer.

"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen," he announced. "It is with great pleasure that I introduce your host for this evening – Lord Elisha Thornton."

As the orchestra struck up a few dramatic chords, a man emerged from an entrance near the foot of the stage. He was a robust-looking gentleman who smiled amiably and waved as the crowd clapped politely. He walked to where the pale young man was standing and accepted a glass of shimmerwine from him. Thornton raised his glass, his red round face continuing to grin as he greeted his guests. Each member of the crowd reciprocated, holding their glasses aloft. Wash shot a quick glance at Zoë and saw that she was following along. He raised his glass as well.

"Welcome, my friends," Thornton said cordially to the crowd. "I cannot begin to express how pleased I am to see so many honored guests in attendance this evening. For some of us, it has been far too long. Please, enjoy yourselves, and if there is anything that you require, my footman Sutherland will see to your needs."

The pale young man offered the crowd a quick and stone-faced bow.

"I promise you," Thornton concluded, "this will be a night you will not soon forget!" He took a hefty drink of his wine, as did many others in the crowd. The orchestra began to play a lively song as Thornton stepped down from the stage and disappeared amongst his guests.

Wash and Zoë stood on the edge of the hardwood floor while several people began taking their positions for the first dance of the evening. Wash heard Zoë curse softly under her breath as she attempted to look over the crowd to catch sight of Thornton. When people began dancing around them, it became apparent that they were standing in a bad spot. Zoë made her way back to the tables on the periphery of the ballroom and Wash trailed behind her, all the while trying to catch a glimpse of their would-be employer.

They found a table that gave them fair visibility of the room. Zoë set her wine down and sat, scanning the crowd continuously with her eyes. Wash dropped into the chair beside her and looked around with far less practiced scrutiny. After a few seconds, he leaned in Zoë's direction. "Seems to me if Thornton was looking to hire a smuggler, he'd put forth an effort to make himself a little more visible," Wash said.

"He's also looking for discretion, Wash," Zoë reminded him. "He'll need to greet the folks he knows first."

"So in the meantime?" Wash asked.

"We wait," Zoë confirmed

An hour later, they were still waiting. Every so often Thornton would pop into view, laughing jovially with his surrounding acquaintances, then disappear again. Wash began to wonder if they would ever be able to catch the man without an entourage. Zoë seemed reluctant to move from their table, saying that it was as decent a hold-point as they were probably going to get, so Wash designated himself to go on nourishment runs. Since he couldn't put his piloting expertise to any use in here, and since it was clear Zoë didn't need him to help with surveillance, it seemed to be the only job he was suited for at the moment. He had just come back from his third trip to the buffet when he found Zoë drumming her fingers on the table. It was the first crack he'd seen in her cool exterior all night.

"Problem?" he asked, sitting down and popping a cube of cantaloupe into his mouth.

Zoë gave him a look that spoke of her frustration, but she didn't let any of that seep into her voice. "Too many blind spots," she said, indicating the numerous pillars that encircled the room. "Makes it harder to assess the whole area and keep an eye on Thornton at the same time." She rested her chin against her hand thoughtfully. "We shouldn't wait much longer to make contact."

"Don't want to seem all tardy and unreliable," Wash replied, chewing on another piece of fruit. He slid the plate over to Zoë. She looked from it up into his face, and he raised his eyebrows as an invitation for her to select what she liked. Zoë chose a slice of mango from the plate and gave him a nod of thanks, a small smile quirking a corner of her lips.

Encouraged by the slight gesture, Wash quickly picked up a napkin and wiped the residual stickiness of the fruit from his hands. "Okay," he said. "What's say we move somewhere else for a better look?"

Zoë shook her head. "Nearly every other table will give the same view as this, Wash," she said. "At least from here I can see the doors – in case we need an exit strategy."

Wash smirked. "Ooh, Mrs. Asbach, you know I love it when you talk tactics," he said dramatically. "But I actually had something else in mind." He rose from his chair and walked around to stand in front of Zoë. She was sitting sideways on her chair; both her exquisite legs were crossed and peeking out of the slit of her dress. Wash smiled and held out his hand.

Zoë eyed it as though it was a foreign object. Her focus shifted from his hand to his face and she raised her brow suspiciously.

"There's one spot in here where you can see the entire room," Wash said, his smile never fading.

"I know you think you're funny, pilot, but this isn't a joke," Zoë countered sternly. "We have a job to do here. This is hardly the time for flights of fancy."

"Oh, I understand that," Wash agreed. He sat quickly onto the chair beside her, scooping her hand into his as he did so. Zoë's eyebrows nearly shot into her hairline at that. "I'm all for being strictly professional," Wash continued, "but I'm not sure if you've noticed: while you've been staking out Thornton, we've developed a bit of a problem."

Zoë's brow furrowed. "What are you talking about?" Her eyes darted left and right before focusing back on Wash.

"Well, I don't know if you've seen yourself, Zoë," Wash said, "but you're rather easy on the eyes."

Zoë looked taken aback. She opened her mouth to speak, but, in the end, she only blinked at him.

"Strictly professionally speaking, of course," Wash amended. "And while you've been focused on the more important issue of the job, as your escort, there are certain things that have not escaped my attention – such as the numerous male eyes that have been on you over the last hour." Wash's gaze slid to the right, and Zoë's followed discreetly. Sure enough, there was a small crowd of men stationed beside one of the pillars near the window. Their eyes frequently shifted to where Zoë was sitting and back again.

Zoë looked back at Wash, who laid his other hand on top of their joined ones. It was an obvious movement – intended to be seen by those men across the room.

"I know we're trying to be as inconspicuous as possible," Wash continued, "but it seems a few members of the male population can't help but be a little distracted."

Zoë rolled her eyes a little at the notion.

"Therein lies the problem," Wash said. "When a woman who looks like you shows up at a social event with a man who's supposed to be her husband, it may seem a mite strange for them to not be socializing together." Wash cocked his head and looked earnestly at her. "I guess what I'm saying is: with so many young men giving you their attention, it probably raises a lot more questions to see you just sitting here." Wash stood up, but didn't let go of her hand. "I promised Mal I'd watch your back – I would guess part of that means helping you blend." He squeezed her hand encouragingly, giving it a gentle tug. "Besides," he added, "there isn't an inch of this room you won't be able to see from the dance floor."

Zoë grimaced uncomfortably, resisting the pull of his hand and liberating herself from his grasp. "I'm not much into dancing, pilot," she said in a low voice, falling back onto using his title again in a way that suggested the matter should be closed.

"I can fake it," Wash pressed. "You just have to follow my lead."

Zoë gave him an uncertain look.

Wash sighed. "Zoë," he said, less jokingly, "there isn't a whole lot I can do to help with this run. I've gotten us here, and now it seems I'm just waiting for the job to get done so I can fly us out. It's been made pretty clear to me that, for the rest of the time, I'm just here as ornamentation – to be your escort so you don't look out of place . . . like a handbag or some such accessory. But if that's the case, then let me do my job." He stepped back from her with another smile and held out his hand again. "Let me accessorize."

Zoë gave him another hesitant look and glanced quickly to where the group of men was still congregating by the window. Occasionally one of them would say something to another in a low tone and peek again in her direction. Zoë turned back to Wash and, without further hesitation, gave him her hand. She squared her lovely shoulders and rose to her feet, all the while allowing her fingers to stay folded within his.

Wash couldn't help but smile as Zoë straightened to her full height before him. He had known she was actually a fair bit taller than he was, but it was especially noticeable when she was wearing heels.

"Ready to do some serious espionage, my lady?" he asked as he drew her arm through the loop of his elbow and began to walk in the direction of the dance floor. On reflex, Wash furtively turned his head toward the group of young men standing by the window and his smile took on a quick flash of gloating. He did not wait to see their reaction.

They reached the center of the floor. Wash continued to hold one of Zoë's hands in his while his other settled upon her waist. The first thing Zoë did was glance at her feet.

"I don't think you're going to find Thornton down there," Wash said with a grin.

Zoë shot him a disapproving glare. "You may regret this," she warned. "I ain't never claimed to be graceful. Not like it ever came in handy during the war."

"I find that hard to believe," Wash replied, releasing her waist for a moment to position her free hand on his shoulder. "Dancing can't be all that different from fighting – just with some music behind the fancy footwork."

Zoë shifted on her feet as her eyes scanned the room.

"Hey," Wash muttered softly to get her attention. She looked at him. "Just let me lead. I promise I won't trip over my own feet . . . or land too heavily on yours." He grinned again and swept them both into the wave of other dancers on the floor.

At first it was more than a little awkward. Their steps did not even remotely resemble the carefully choreographed routines of the other guests. Wash, after all, knew full well he wouldn't recognize a real waltz if Jayne started sashaying one across the cargo bay floor. But at some point, his steps became less tentative, and Zoë's began to feel less like she was running on her tiptoes to keep up with him. Then they relaxed, and just danced.

As their movements became more and more in sync, Wash decided to get a little braver. He hadn't intended it as showing off, at first. However, the desire to prove to Zoë that he wasn't completely without talents unrelated to piloting soon became too great a temptation to resist. His grip on her waist tightened for the briefest moment, then he gave a gentle push, spinning her away from him.

Zoë, who hadn't been expecting it, gave an uncharacteristically startled yelp. Her fingers suddenly clutched Wash's hand more tightly, using him to hold on to her balance as she came to an abrupt stop an arm's length away. Wash jerked his arm back again and Zoë followed, lurching slightly as she stumbled flush into him.

It took a moment for Wash to realize what had happened. One second he was attempting to twirl his dance partner, and the next thing he knew, his arms were completely filled with a rather stunning warrior woman who was pressed flat against him. One of his hands seemed to have caught her at the small of the back, instead of settling into its original position on her hip. Zoë's free hand must have overshot its mark as well, because it was no longer on his shoulder; Wash could feel it at the base of his neck.

A sudden uncomfortable feeling spread through him – though it was not entirely unpleasant. In fact, it was nice. More than nice. And that could only be bad. A quick visual of an instant death at Zoë's lovely hands flashed across his mind. And while Wash admitted it might even be worth it, he still instinctively stepped back away from her with an awkward clearing of his throat.

"Sorry," he chuckled. "I haven't done that for a while. Must be rusty."

Zoë looked about to respond, but then her eyes darted swiftly past him, focusing on something in the crowd. ". . . the hell?" she muttered, and took a step past Wash.

Wash spun around and tried to focus on what Zoë was seeing, but didn't even know what he was looking for. Regardless, he scanned the crowd as he came to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Zoë. "What is it?"

Zoë shook her head, looking slightly confused. "Thought I saw someone," she said.

"Lots of 'someones' about," Wash remarked. "Someone in particular?"

Zoë nodded, her eyes still darting through the mass of people in the ballroom. Whomever she had seen must have been swallowed by the crowd. "Someone who certainly wouldn't belong in a place like this," she said.

"Ah," Wash replied. "Someone like us, you mean."

Zoë nodded again and turned to face him. "Looked an awful lot like a man named Zheng. The captain and I have had run-ins with him before. Not the most reputable sort."

Wash narrowed his eyes. "You think Thornton might have commissioned another smuggler? What, is he comparison shopping?"

"Could be." Zoë looked thoughtfully around the room. "Could be nothing. Either way, we should probably wrap this up quick as possible."

Wash glanced over her shoulder and caught sight of a round, red smiling face. "There," he said, motioning to Zoë with a quick jut of his chin. "Prospective employer at ten o' clock."

Zoë spun around and followed Wash's line of sight. Sure enough, Thornton was near the wall just opposite them, smiling and laughing with a mercifully smaller crowd of people. It seemed as though it was now or never.

Zoë took a quick step toward him, then turned briefly back to Wash. "This won't take long," she said. "I'll take care of the negotiation and meet you back at our original table."

"Aye-aye, ma'am," Wash replied. He didn't bother asking if she wanted him to come along. In a way, he was grateful she hadn't asked. For some reason, after the dancing debacle, he felt the need for a little distance. And maybe some fresh air. He started to walk away.

"Oh, and Wash," he heard Zoë call from behind him. He turned to meet her eyes. "Good job," she added, and began making her way toward Elisha Thornton.

Wash smiled and shoved his hands into his pockets. He glanced around the room and tried to settle upon the best way to kill a few minutes waiting for Zoë. He decided that he probably wouldn't be visiting a house like this again for a fair while, unless this job paid better than even Mal had anticipated. It couldn't hurt to have a bit of a look around – see how the other half lived.

Wash walked out into the hallway and made a left. There were a few guests lingering about, so he didn't feel too out of bounds. The last thing he wanted was to sour the deal Zoë was trying to make by being caught snooping around the employer's palace. With that on his mind, Wash decided that the safest place to get the lowdown on the lifestyles of the rich and eccentric was to pay a visit to the head. Wash spotted one door that looked promising, and began to push it open.

Inside, however, wasn't a washroom. In fact, the door was more like the rear entrance to what looked like a large study or a library. There were shelves upon shelves of books lining one wall. Each shelf had its own individual walkway, which were all connected by a large circular staircase extending from floor to ceiling. On the right side of the room was an ornate marble fireplace surrounding a roaring open flame. Numerous sculptures, which were probably outrageously expensive, decorated every corner.

Wash probably would have thought it was the most lavish room he had ever seen, had he taken the time to really notice it. What caught his attention, however, was not the opulent interior decorating . . . but the fifty or more uniformed Alliance troops congregating in the center of the room.

Directly in their midst was a pale young man with thick foppish hair. It was Sutherland, Thornton's footman.

Wash ducked immediately back into the hall. He backed up until he came into contact with the opposite wall.

"Ai ya," he breathed. "Well, this can't be good."


To be continued . . .

* * * * * * * * * * *


Manderin Translations:

zhuàng – simple-minded
bù shàn – pretty impressive
ai ya – damn

Additional Author's Notes: In the Serenity novelization, "Manfred Asbach" is the name Mr. Universe went by while in flight school with Wash. (Some additional information also provided on the Firefly Timeline.)


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(x-posted to wifesoup and zoe_wash)