FAY.

I just.... YES.

Thank you for this.

Holy Fuck, woman. Each one gets better and better. You have nailed everyone, but never so much as Inara right now. I think for the first time, I truly understand her. And she was my least favorite character of the show.

::swallows. mutely::

Damn! That was great.

::beams::

I'm sorry that they didn't do more with Inara, and with the idea of the Companions. 'Cause what we got in canon (and, you know, Firefly is probably my favourite Whedon show) was just a mess. But they could have done something like the Bene Jesserit, or something more Jacqueline Carey-ish, and that would have been just AWESOME. I loved the little glimpses we got, though - Saffron, for example - that suggested there was a whole lot more going on with the Companions than just the Pretty Woman schtick.

Anyway, another one. Shorter, this time:

v

It feels like having his throat severed by a blade so impossibly sharp that for a long, long instant the arteries don't realise their integrity is gone, and the blood continues to flow down its normal path. It feels like missing a step in the dark, and realising, all of a sudden, that one is in the wrong house. It feels like looking at one of those freaky images from Earth That Was, where you realise, all of a sudden, that the black lizards crawling on a white floor are actually white lizards crawling on a black floor. It feels like being gut shot. Like losing his Ma.

There's the shock, the stomach-churning instant of recognition, the fulcrum, and then – then the flood of bitter horror as the world shifts around him, and he understands how badly he has erred.

This is – he doesn't believe it, is the thing, even though his eyes are telling him, even though his ears are telling him, even though he can smell the blood and the stink of shit where a man's just been shot down in front of him. Too pretty to die. Oh, it's a joke, of course, always been a joke, but he's still always believed it. Believed God was looking out for him, believed his prayers were heard and weighed, and that when he threw himself crazy-reckless into danger, dragging Zoe along behind him, that he was somehow protected. That it couldn't happen to him. Not really. He's just playing, and he's special, after all. His Ma always said so – and although he knows that's what mothers say, apparently on some level he believed it anyway. He's big and strong and true of heart, he's a hero, all the girls tell him so. And he laughs at that, and jokes about it, but deep down he knows that he's an honourable man, and his cause is just. He knows that he has integrity in the very bones of him, and he's sharp enough to see that this is not true of everyone.

Sure, other people lose, other people die in stupid, pointless ways – but it could never happen to him.

They must all think that. It must be such a surprise, when they realise they ain't nothing special after all. He thought he was better'n that, wiser'n that. Thought he wasn't some wet-behind-the-ears cadet, full of dumb ideals. Thought he knew what he was doing. Thought that, underneath the bravado and the seat-of-the-pants heroics, he was still pretty smart. Still taking calculated risks, not simply throwing himself into danger. Thought he had someone up there on his side.

He's been a fool. He's been walking around with blinders on this whole time, pretending the world is other than it is. Pretending there's a God looking out for them, high-falutin' generals looking out for them; pretending that there's somebody, somewhere, who gives a shit about 'fair' and 'just' and 'rewards'. Somebody who'll notice how hard he tries, how bright he shines, and do right by him and his.

There's nobody.

There's just people, stupid people, ordinary people placing their trust in priests and in no-good sons of bitches in uniforms, and getting screwed over for their trouble. Getting shot down where they stand, no matter how young, no matter how brave, no matter how pretty.

Mal Reynolds looks out at the glittering lights over Serenity Valley, and listens to the sound of gunfire and dying soldiers, and his heart feels like someone has pierced it with a dozen fishhooks and is tearing it into pieces while he breathes.

There is no rescue. No cavalry. No God. There is nothing for a man to have faith in but the strength in his own two hands, (continued...)

( continues...) and the friend who's got his back.

His mama's crucifix slips out of Mal's fingers and falls into the mess of blood and shit spreading out from the soldier who lies dying at his feet.

Yes. That was when. Just like that.

You're amazing, Fay.

Oh, yes. Just, yes.

I'm running out of words, Fay.

Except: more.

Even though this is (coincidentally) Grenier's birthday, this post is not sponsored by Absolut, or Victoria's Secret, or any of the other companies that 'sponsored' Vinnie's last birthday.

Mrs. Ari waited in her living room, appointment book spread out before her, pen in her teeth. He'd seen her name on something on Ari's desk once, but he still thought of her as "Mrs. Ari" much as he had when he was fresh from Queens.He noticed that her blouse, nail polish and toes all matched. Really matchy rich women were the one group that tended to make Vince nervous, as if they could tell that E. had looked up how to eat with multiple forks in a book so that Vince wouldn't be embarrassed at the Oscars.Still, he did what only seemed to come naturally, and smiled brightly.

"Nice place you have here."

She made a notation in her book. "Well, I can only take a little credit. It was decorated, mostly. Still, you like to add your own little touches, right?"

Vince considered his own place...he supposed he understood, if herb, skin magazines, and playstation controls were "little touches." "Right."

"That was a nice thing you did for Sarah. Seventh grade is so hard. But I know you're not just on some movie star mission of mercy...not unless the business has changed that much since my Kendall Scott days..."

"I keep looking for a classy way to say this, Mrs. Gold, but if there is one, I need some scriptwriter to give it to me. But I'm seriously sorry about having sex in the closet during your benefit. I wasn't intending to create a distraction or anything....I'm just infatuated, and I'm sure you, along with most of this town, know I can't be trusted at times like that."

Vince wasn't really sure what to expect after letting this pour out of him so he was only a little startled when Mrs. Ari snapped her perfectly manicured finger and said "Mandy Moore, right?"

Motherfucker, Chase...how much of a punk were you that year? "Um, among others, yes."

"I'm sorry, Vincent...it's just that now I remember what I know about you.Hopefully the people in that theater watching "How to Deal" till Ari disrupted it are similarly forgetful."

"Ari did that!"

'Yes, my husband loves grand gestures...it's the day-to-day that is sometimes lacking."

"I guess, after what I did, I don't have much room to comment about that. It was mostly my idea...I just don't want you to have bad feelings about Dr. Cuddy from this."

"Well, you did disrupt the awards presentation. To put it mildly."

Something about the way she said that made him want to smile and he had to think of auto accidents to stop himself.

"So, are you in love with her?"

"Excuse me, ma'am?"

"Humor me...I'm an old married lady, far from the Hollywood gossip and I'm tempted to write a script just to get my husband's attention."

"I'm sure you'd come up with a good one, if you wanted to. Maybe I could play the gardener or something."

"Don't do that...running yourself down makes it easier for other people to do it; I used to be an actress. I know."

He wanted to say "no, you used to be a soap slut, and lick your lips and arch your back a lot." but then add a little more water and shirtlessness and that could be his gig in Head-On, too. He felt good about QB, but that didn't make him De Niro.