( continues...) Cause that type- A motherfucker lives at his office, you know that, Vin."

"Yeah, I know...I need to talk to Mrs. G."

"If you fuck his wife, he'll have your legs broken...he wrote it on my holiday card."

"This is not about sex...more of a mea culpa."

"I'm not in the mood to see anyone now, Vince," Cuddy said. "It's been a long flight and..." Especially not the beautiful and well-dressed Mrs. Gold, who has a way of making her feel like a longshoreman even on days when she hasn't been flying for hours.

"It's okay...that night in the coat closet was my idea...I can take one for the team and apologize."

"So I just sit in the car?"

"Welcome to my world, Lisa." Turtle said. "It's okay...we'll play Death is Not an Option or something."

"Be advised," Vince said. "Turtle is the hardest DINAO player ever...he wouldn't let me get out of fucking Henry Kissinger. Back in a sec."

"Well, if it weren't disgusting, it's not Death Is Not An Option...it's Vince's life."

Vince flipped Turtle off and bounced off to talk to the Gold's housekeeper in his broken Spanish.

"Mrs. Gold," Vince said, feeling awkward suddenly now that he can smell her perfume. "We met briefly at Sarah's bat mitzvah. I'm..."

She cut him off with a practiced hand. "I know who you are...you're the reason my husband hasn't eaten a warm dinner in three years."

He smiled. "Oh, I'm sure I'm only one of a hundred reasons." With most women, that would have killed, but as Ari Gold reminded everyone, he wasn't married to most women.

"No, you're Ari's big discovery. Can I help you? Because I need to check on Sarah...she's home sick with strep."

"That's a killer."

"Mom, I'm thirsty and I think we're out of juice!"

"One second, Sarah. Honestly, our people wandered for forty years in the desert; you're not going to dry out without orange-pineapple juice."

Mrs. Ari looked quizzically at Vince, who was having a rare failure of nerve
. "Fine, I'll just get some water."

"You can get it." Vince said. "I'll wait...strep sucks
Sarah recovered enough strength to hop on the phone with her BFF that gave her strep." Oh my god, Shana! The hottie from "Head-on' is here. And he just said "sucks' and my mom didn't say *anything*. Yeah, I guess he made like a billion dollars for my dad or something...what do you mean, Head on is a stupid movie...I didn't hear you saying that when he had his shirt off in it. He just got done making this other movie in New York, which I'd like, do anything to see but my dad will get all crazy and won't let me...you'd think he'd want me to, like, support what he does, or something. I know!...no, I can't go talk to him...my nose is red and I look kind of gross...no, I'm not scared....no, I'm not. Am not."

Vince walked down the hallway with a glass of water with a lemon in it. "Are too. It's okay, though. The real trick is not to let the fear stop you. And I'd better go take my own advice."

"Hi, Vince...that's your name right?"

"All day, unless it rains. My mother said that; I don't know what it means."

"Old people,"

"I feel you. Only don't let your mother hear you say that." "I'm sorry I'm not wearing lip gloss...when I thought about this in math class, I was totally wearing lip gloss."

'"I never would have noticed," Vince told her. "Don't worry about it. I mean, you're good-looking enough, for someone your age."

Sarah's thank you was just barely audible.

"Keep a good thought for me, okay? I've got to have a serious talk with your mom...any advice?"

"Use good grammar, don't curse, which is funny, you know, cause of my dad...one time, I heard him threaten to cut off some guy's,you know, private part? and give it to the killer whale at Sea World."

"He must have been very upset. Anything else?"

"Um, not that you would do this,but she hates it when me and Jonah, oh I mean Jonah and I, whine."

"You've been very helpful. Feel better fast!"

• **

Aw, bless!

::is slain::

I just - that's adorable. And I completely believe that is how things go Chez Gold. Yes indeed.

Beginning of a ahort Firefly/Sandman sequence:

cliché bingo card #1: “Fusion With Another Fandom”

SEVEN ENDLESS MOMENTS

i

He had a different name, then. It wasn't the name his mother had given him, but she was long gone, and it was the name that the government recognised. His masters. He had been a perfect Operative, and prided himself on that perfection. Lethal, brilliant, persuasive – he was an ideal tool. He could out-think, out-talk, out-maneuver, out-shoot anyone, everyone, and he was utterly devoted. He had lost his faith in other people, had lost his faith in God, but his faith in civilization was unshakable. His faith in this work, in the government, in the future of the human race – that was a flame that burned in the darkness of his heart, that was the reason for every betrayal, every compromise, every ruthless and terrible deed he committed. Because he was building a better universe. They were building a better universe. And if he mortgaged his own soul in the process, and if he slit the throats of good men, shot brave women in the back, left caterwauling babies sobbing in the ruins in the knowledge that they would die of exposure or be eaten by wild dogs – well, he had a dirty, needful job. He was making himself into a sacrifice, doing the unthinkable, being the unforgivable, all to forward the course of human history.

He had forged himself into the perfect weapon, and he thought that was what he would always be until one quiet, terrible day when he betrayed a good man whose trust he had won through months of careful lies, and, afterwards, watched his labours come to glittering, terrible fruition over Serenity Valley – and a question grew within his heart.

“Yes.”

He was circling around the man before the sound had finished forming in the air, gun pointing unerringly into the shadows that hid the stranger's face and his finger poised to deliver death.

“And whence, friend, came you?” His voice was level and deadly, his eyes narrowed as he took in the strange, monastic robes and the heavy volume clutched in the stranger's hands. The chain that dangled from the book.

“Here,” said the tall man, and his voice was dusty as a lost library, dispassionate and inhuman as any computer. “And, yes. You have changed the course of history this day. You have won the war and changed the universe. The Alliance will rule uncontested for decades because of this day's work. Because of you. Without you, the battle of Serenity would have been lost.”

He believed it. It should have felt like victory, like validation. Instead it felt like a bullet to the heart.

“Nothing will change,” he said, suddenly understanding, suddenly feeling something shattering within him.

“Everything changes – and nothing does,” agreed the man with the book. “All you have is your own life, in which to love, and forgive, and betray, and despise. That is all anyone ever has, no matter the colour of their gloves or their coats, or the finery of their City Halls. You have not changed what lies in the hearts of men. That is outside your control.”

He bowed his head, understanding, then, the full weight of the crimes he had committed against his fellows in this lifetime.

“I was wrong,” he said, paralysed by the horror of it, thinking back to the look in the eyes of a man who had believed him a friend. Thinking back to the promise he made his mother before she died. “It is not enough. This is not justice.”

The gun slipped from nerveless fingers, and that was a piece of carelessness he could never have committed before. By some miracle, it did not fire. As it clattered to the ground it took with it his name, his identity, his faith, and his future, and he turned his back on the cowled figure and on the great deeds he had accomplished this bright and dreadful day.

“Yes,” said the stranger behind him, but he was no longer interested in who, or what, the robed figure might be. He was only interested in his own future.

“Book,” he said to himself, turning the word over on his tongue as (continued...)

( continues...) he trod across the dusty ground, hearing explosions and screams still echo in the distance. “I would be something still and quiet, with wisdom in my heart.” And as his commanders celebrated their victory with shouts and cheers and liquor he walked towards a different destiny, where, perhaps, he might learn something of healing, and the secrets of nurturing strawberries and men's souls.

ii

She's a very pretty girl, and he notices that, of course, because he's only human, but he's also a married man, and his Zoe would carve out his heart if he ever gave her cause. So he doesn't. Give her cause. Even though this girl is smiling at him like he's the most charming, amusing, downright adorable thing she's ever seen. Even though he feels like he's known her his whole life.

“Hi there,” he says, feeling kind of dumb, and, actually, she does kind of remind him of his wife, a little. Something about the lovely dark tumble of her hair, and the certainty of her; something about the way she contains both merriment and dignity in her smile.

“Hello, Wash,” she says, dimpling at him, and he feels like he's said something witty after all.

Actually, where the hell are they? And where did she come from? He looks around then, belatedly puzzled, because he's pretty sure they didn't take on any passengers at the last stop. Although – where was the last stop again?

“Sorry, this is going to sound stupid, but I just – have we met?”

She grins. “Just the once, Wash. But it's good to see you again.”

He can feel himself blushing, and he's very conscious again that he's alone with a pretty girl – and it's not like it's his fault, 'cause he's just sitting here doing his job, flying the damn ship, and if the cap'n will go taking on pretty girls and letting them wander freely around the ship then it's no fault of a happily married man if sometimes they might wander into his place of work and start playing with his dinosaurs.

“Raaar!” she says, brandishing one dinosaur at the other with an expression of delight. “'No! No! Don't eat me!' 'But you are made of tasty meat, and I am hungry!' 'Couldn't you try being a vegetarian? I hear that soybeans are delicious!' 'I am a carnivore, and you look pretty delicious to me, pal. Raaar!' 'What if I tell you a story?' 'Then I will sit nicely and listen to your story, and if it is good I will applaud, and if it is bad I will say uncomplimentary things, but either way I will still eat you up.' 'But that isn't fair!' 'That's how the cookie crumbles, buster. I'm hungry, and you didn't run fast enough. Raaar!'”

He watches as one plastic dinosaur cheerfully eats the other one – or at least nuzzles its plastic jaws at the other's plastic throat – and feels like hugging her. And not in a rhythmic, inappropriate-to-a-married-man kind of way. Just – hugging her, like he'd hug a sister, if he had one.

“I'm sorry, but I really don't remember your name,” he confesses, feeling oddly certain that she won't mind.

She looks up at him and grins again, and he knows that he was right. She doesn't mind at all. “We weren't formally introduced,” she says, setting his dinosaurs back down where they belong. “And it was – a while ago. You were a lot smaller then.” She makes it sound like it's a joke that they're sharing, and he can't help smiling back in return, but he's starting to get a real sense of oddness.

“Sorry, I don't – where are we going, again?” He looks at his instruments, feeling embarrassed. He must be getting old. He must have dozed off, which he doesn't do very often, whatever Jayne might say. Just sometimes, looking out over the glittering field of stars, if he's had an unusually, ah, athletic night, he might sometimes rest his eyes a little, by closing them. Occasionally. But he isn't normally as disoriented as this when he awakes. “Were we – Persephone, was it, or...” And that's when the first spike of wrongness hits him. “Reavers!” He jumps out of his chair, adrenaline suddenly surging through his veins. “There were – we – where is (continued...)

( continues...) everyone?”

She looks at him sadly. “You landed it beautifully, Wash. Got them all in safe and sound. Brought her in like a leaf on the wind. It was just bad luck, in the end. It often is.”

He blinks. “What?”

She pulls a face. “You died.”

There's a beat, and he's waiting for the punchline, but it never comes. “What?” he says again, instead.

“You died, Wash. I'm here to guide you home.”

“You're – I – no.” He looks at her then, really looks at her, bone-white skin and glittering necklace and crazy black chaos of tattered frou-frou skirts. She's a stranger who feels as familiar as his Zoe, as familiar as his own face, and she's impossible. Crazy as River. Except – except that he's never seen anyone so thoroughly down-to-earth, so disarmingly sane. “Dead?” he says at last. “Really?”

She nods apologetically. “Really. Sorry. That's your lot.”

“Oh.” It feels oddly anticlimactic. “I always kind of thought there'd be, you know, a bright light. Maybe beautiful girls with wings. Not that you're not beautiful – I didn't mean that, I mean, you're very beautiful!” She's looking at him fondly, and he's blushing and stumbling over his words. “I mean, not like that – or, you know, maybe if I wasn't married – but – but – I'm just saying I thought there'd be wings.”

“I have wings,” she says, confidentially. “You just can't see them.”

“Oh.” He blinks out at the familiar heavens. “Okay then. Invisible wings. Well, that's nice. Not what I pictured, but – nice. No choirs of heavenly voices raised in song either? But that's probably a good thing – never much cared for madrigals. Mad wriggles. Silly word.” He looks at her sidelong. “So you're the grim reaper? I have to say, you don't look very grim. Or reapy.”

Her smile widens. “I've never seen the point of being gloomy,” she tells him. “I suppose I could try to look mopey, if it would make you feel better, but it always strikes me as rather silly.”

“No! No, not complaining. This is – nice.” Wash reflects for a moment, startled. “Weirdly, unexpectedly – nice.” He chews his bottom lip. “Will I get to see Zoe again?” he asks, after a while, in a small voice. When he glances across at her, he doesn't know how to read the expression on her face.

“That would be telling,” is all she says. She leans a little closer, and pushes one of the instruments in front of him. “Just a little further – yes. Like that.”

Wash blinks as the viewscreen begins to fill with something bright and unexpected.

“Oh!” he says, filling up with the kind of shocked, joyful sense of awe he had felt the first time he looked out at a planet from above.

“Yes,” she says, gently, and takes his hand.

iii

It's real shiny, this place. She likes it best of all.

Kaylee has a whole slew of different worlds bottled up in her head like candy in a jar, and her dreams can take her all kinds of different places. Lot of times this involves pretty boys in fancy waistcoats bringing her fresh-grown hothouse flowers – lotuses, or lilies, or orchids, like she's seen on the vids – or else feeding her strawberries or sticky rice with slivers of mango bright and wet and slippery as goldfish, while she reclines on froofy pillows on one of those fancy loveseats. Then the pretty boys might maybe lose their waistcoats, and their fine, clean shirts, and their tight, tight pants, and then it might be their skins that get all wet and slippery, and their perfect teeth bright as they bite down on her flesh and make her giggle.

Kaylee's plenty fond of that kind of dream.

Sometimes there might be more than one boy, 'cause Kaylee's a woman of healthy appetites, and she's got energy and enthusiasm enough to go round. Couple of times it was the Captain, and, boy, did she ever feel blushful when she handed him his tea at dinner the next day. She's had dreams about Inara too, a time or two, with her fine dresses and her knowing smile, but although she's curious, and game for anything, Kaylee would really rather be Inara than lie with her. She loves the thought of moving slow and (continued...)

( continues...) graceful like that, in a drift of scent. Loves the idea that men might have to stop in mid-chatter, or pause in mid-step, and turn their heads to watch her walk past, lovely and dignified and utterly desirable in her silk and velvet. But Kaylee knows, even in her dreams, that she could no more be Inara than she could turn into a horse.

Lot of times, she dreams about Simon. For a long while she didn't quite dare dream about doing anything that might mess up his pretty clothes, because it seemed kind of disrespectful, and, 'sides, he's so darned nice to just look at. Like something in a story book. She felt sure that she'd say something stupid, or get engine oil on his waistcoat, and his face would get that tight, disappointed look she dreads. That what-am-I-doing-here-with-this-dirty-little-hick expression. That I-should-be-talking-to-fine-ladies-and-gentlemen-right-now expression. He's not like the rest of Serenity's crew. He's – class. He's like the living, breathing embodiment of class. The finest thing Kaylee's seen outside of vids and fleeting glimpses of Inara's clients. Too good to touch, almost, like some kind of porcelain doll or spun-sugar candy that might break if you picked it up. She knows he can speak Chinese all proper, and from his name and his clothes and his money and his pretty dark eyes, she reckons he's got family in the Core – got hisself a Chinese grandpappy, maybe. Connections. Way out of the reach of Kaywinnit Lee Frye.

But he's awful pretty, and after a while she got over her shyness. Now she dreams about him all the time: dreams about watching his eyes go wide and startled as she opens up his shirt, dreams about all that fine, clean, unscarred skin. Dreams about having him up against the wall of her engine room, or on top of the dining table, or in his clean little medical room. Dreams about rolling in the grass with him like she used to do when she was a girl, or taking him on the desert floor (although she knows fine well, from experience, that that only leads to sand in places a girl really doesn't want to find sand). Dreams of lying with him in the glowing aftermath, curled up in his arms on a huge, soft bed with real sheets and billowing net curtains.

She likes those dreams. Likes them a lot. But they're not her favourites.

Kaylee's favourite dreams, better than the ones with strawberries or athletic and willing young men, are the dreams of machines. The happy purr of an engine working properly, oiled and tended and sweet as a nut. Small machines, grand machines, fine old antiques and cocky young things fresh from the factory. Steel and brass and copper and ceramic. Cogs knitting neatly into place. Finding purity and simplicity and patterns in complex tangles of wires and gears and pistons and chips. Following connections, tinkering, tending, listening to the lovely mix of voices sent up by each moving part. This is Kaylee's favourite place, the place where she's most herself, self-contained and purposeful and joyous, her mind and her heart and her soul at peace. Serene.

It's most often in those dreams, those bright and angular dreams of metal and oil and sparks, that she sometimes glimpses the man. Tall, pale, his hair an explosion of shadows, his eyes like patches of the star-scatterred heavens. He's nobody she knows, and if she saw a fella looked like him in her waking life she'd jump a mile, because there's strange and then there's downright unnatural. But – he belongs here. She gets that feeling, those rare times she sees him out of the corner of her eye, maybe while she's riding Simon like a pony, or when she's just figured out the source of a sad little rattling noise in the ship's engine: that this is his rightful place. And she knows about things having their natural order, about pieces sliding neatly together with a rightness, a perfection that defies the constant press of entropy. She surely wouldn't want to try peeling off his rich robes and feeding him slivers of mango or sticky rice, but she feels companionable towards him, when he drifts (continued...)

( continues...) around the edges of her dreams. She wishes he didn't so often look so sad. She's even thought about talking to him, once or twice – trying to bring a smile to that grave, pale, face – but he intimidates her more than Simon ever did, and she always falters and draws back, and sinks into embraces or machines once more. She feels him watching her – not threatening, just curious – and she hopes that he has a place that makes him feel all peaceful-like, the way her machines do her. The way Simon sometimes does. Because he surely looks like a man could use a touch of serenity – or, if not that, then somebody brave enough to feed him strawberries and make him laugh.

Oh. Fay.

I am not nearly as conversant with the Endless as I want to be, am most familiar with Death, and most fond of Wash, so the centerpiece was the heart of this tryptich for me. All lovely (especially Book! My heart!), all truly voiced.

But I hear Wash, and I see the expression on his face. Thank you for giving me that.

Again - moved to tears. Book chilled me - and that's what Destiny does. Wash...yes. As Beverly said.

And Kaylee...and Dream. Dream-from-Daniel is this silent, wafting, observant...thing. And yet she's not afraid of him - in fact...and this is the perfection: as Kaylee, she's just concerned that he's happy, or content.

Who else (besides, perhaps, Death)...who else cares about Dream's happiness?

Of course Kaylee does.

Thank you for reminding me.

Nice and tragic. Put me in my jester place, like marzipan in my pie plate. Yes, well, those were some of the rules in my house, so...it wasn't too precious, was it? Cause that's a danger when you write something thinking "oh, that would be cute," It could be like the Renesmee of scenes.(And now I've got to find out what he says to her. But Vince, Imo, doesn't spend enough time with women where sex is off the table...or, you know, out of the coat closet.)