( continues...) stupid that he's on the verge of tears now. He blinks hard and furrows his brow and tells himself to get it together. Stupid. He knew what he was getting into the first time, and he's only got himself to blame if he's been dumb enough to hope that Sirius might eventually start to want him for himself. Might love him back. He knows what Sirius wants, and it's not the same thing that he wants.

“I'm the best,” he agrees softly, blinking at the stars overhead, and he hopes – oh, God, he really really hopes – that this won't be one of those times that Sirius gasps out James's name as he comes.

::speechless::

::loves on Fay madly::

I'll have your babies, Fay, if you can promise that they all will write like you do.

::nods at what Anne said. And what Sail said::

Aw, thanks, people! Glad you like them!

Ceding my monopoly, and yet, not.

"I had an interesting call today."

"You know you scare me when you get cute, Ari. What?" Lisa Cuddy replied.

"How would you like to be Nancy Snyderman with tits?"

"Dr. Snyderman has breasts, Ari. At least it seems like she does on television."

"Not like yours, and why won't you say 'tits' for me?"

"Haven't you talked to House yet? I'm sure you could get together and agree that I do everything because I'm bitchy and annoying. But I think you both finally understand that we can cross sexually frustrated off the list."

"Ouch, Lisa. I think I felt your scalpel in my scrotum that time."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be...I'm also incredibly aroused right now."

"Okay...well, if you're looking for Vince and Eric, I have no idea where they are."

"Get used to that...for whatever reason Vinny and the President of the Lollipop Guild are still like the fucking double helix...my friends and I would have torn each other apart by now, but..."

"Ari, you've been reading.I'm proud of you...not enough to cheat with you, but I'm proud of you."

"Well, yes, that's why I'm taking this moment to pitch you Medical Minute...it's kind of a crappy gig, as written, but it won't be by the time I'm finished with it, and you won't have to go back to the land of celibacy and snow tires. Unless you're bored with my boy already...I'll talk to him, tell him everything I know."

"That ought to be fascinating for him. But, Ari, I have a very full-time job in New Jersey. And I'm not cut out for television."

"The president of operations at the Discovery Channel thinks otherwise.He dug you on The View."

"Oh, God, don't remind me. My pathology rotation felt shorter than that interview...minus the morgue smell of course."

"Lisa, I'd get you a good deal. And you've seen the fuckin' tropical flowers as big as your hand, right? And, for the sake of my own vanity, I won't go into some of the other reasons why someone like you might want to hang around a guy like Vince. Because it's not very good for me when I hate my clients, even though I make them richer than ever(cough) Seth McFarlane...my kid could draw those fuckin' pictures, Lisa. And every time I see that funny-voiced motherfucker it's all I can do not to yell out "Pop tarts and Nick at Nite shouldn't add up to a career, even with all the weed in New England!' But I don't. Because I'm not a stupid person and that little pisher and his crayons are holding a major studio in his sticky little hands. But it would kill me if I got like that with Vince. Just like I don't want Jonah thinking I'm fat and pathetic and I don't get it in ten years."

"If it happened, it wouldn't last."Cuddy said, wondering why he was telling her all this."They both think the world of you. Despite all my best efforts, I might add."

"Oh, bullshit, Cuddy. You haven't said dick...your ethics get in the way. But all the same think about my shallow easy money, would you? Dana Gordon won't let me curse at her on the phone anymore and I miss my Pretend Other Woman. But if Defamer asks, you just can't stay away."

"But won't that put Vince in a difficult position?"

"Not any more than you already do, baby. Besides, all that yoga is supposed to help with that."

LOVE. IT.

More! More! (God, Ari Gold! How are you so awesome? Oh, that's right - because Erika's giving you all your good lines!)

...honestly, Ari and Cuddy is the best idea ever.

Thanks, I thought so, but you know, in crossovers you have to be super-careful that the 'verses work. But I kind of like thinking of him as her Duckie, in high school. I don't know why; the contrast between that and his public image of always being "The Man", that really doesn't fit with his home life. Or the fact that he *so* wants to sit at Vince Chase's cool table that he ate mushrooms with them. But he'd die if he thought Vince knew he put a mix tape in Cuddy's locker once.

Writing a 'Fusion Fic' (a term I had to have explained to me, le sigh) and would be grateful for your thoughts on the story so far.

A CHANGE IN THE WIND

“You're late,” says Badger, and there's a malicious note in his voice that Mal doesn't particularly care for. He heaves a sigh.

“We're not late,” Mal says, calmly, shifting just a little in his rickety chair so that the handle of his pistol glints in the firelight. Badger's eyes dart down to the gun for a moment, and he leans back and studies Mal with a grin.

“You're later than I'd like,” he amends.

“Can we skip the pissing contest and get to the part where he pays us?” mutters Jayne, glaring at the two large gentlemen looming behind Badger's fancy chair, and doing a little looming himself. Zoe doesn't say anything, but her expression speaks volumes.

“Master Cobb ain't the most diplomatic of men, but I find I can't argue with his sentiments,” says Mal, drumming blunt fingertips on the table's battered surface. “We did the job, Mister Brocklehurst. Now we get paid. Seems simple enough.”

Badger cocks his head. “You salvaged a shipment of silks and tea and silver plate and all manner of fancy things?”

“We did.” There's a platter of food on the table: fresh bread, half-melted butter, cheese, fresh fruit, cold meat. Badger has a lace-edged square of muslin tucked into the collar of his jacket and he is gnawing on a greasy chicken leg. He smacks his lips in exaggerated enjoyment, and pointedly does not offer Mal or his crewmen any share of the vittels.

“From the wreck of the 'Prudence', that ran aground on a certain reef not a week ago?”

“That's correct.” Mal reaches across and helps himself to an orange, and enjoys the way that Badger scowls.

“Which was carrying a whole heap of fancy things belonging to the Governor of this fair isle.” Badger pauses for a moment to let that sink in. “Fancy things he'd ordered all specific like, for his upcoming wedding. Very specific. Initials entwined in the designs on the china and worked into the silver candlesticks specific. Silks and satins and taffetas in the colours his fiance favours. Very – specific. Very traceable.”

“Hell's teeth,” mutters Zoe, darting a very eloquent look at her Captain.

“And, what's more, the dear Governor sent out his own little salvage expedition, seeing as how he loves his soon-to-be wife more than life itself.”

“Ah,” says Mal, his face falling slightly. He pauses in the middle of peeling his orange. Badger nods.

“Indeed. You've heard the story, perhaps? For word is that the Governor's brave little band of sailors bent on saving the silks and silver ran into a spot of trouble. Apparently they found – you'll never believe this, Commodore – they found a band of pirates busy a-helping themselves to the Governor's goods!”

“I'm not a pirate,” says Mal Reynolds, quietly, his eyes fixed on the bright ribbon of rind that is curling down onto the table as he works on the orange.

“Possibly not the time for engaging in philosophy or semantics, Captain,” murmurs Zoe, helping herself to a slice of the fruit.

“A band of pirates led by a great big tall chap wearing – can you credit the nerve of the fella – the stolen uniform of a Commodore in His Majesty's Imperial navy.” Badger stares pointedly at Mal's jacket, which has definitely seen better days but is still, quite unmistakably, part of his old uniform. Zoe sighs. “So you see, Commodore, it's going to be pretty hard shifting any of those goods that have been described so vividly by our beloved Governor. And if I were you, I wouldn't go walking around town in daylight dressed like a Wanted poster.”

“It's not Commodore,” says Mal, mildly, popping a chunk of orange into his mouth. “My friends call me Mal. You can call me Captain Reynolds, though. Or Sir. Sir would do just fine.”

“See, that's why I don't like you, Commodore,” says Badger, leaning forwards very suddenly, his expression almost a snarl. “That attitude of yours. You think you're (continued...)

( continues...) better than the rest of us, don't you? With your fancy education, and your shiny buttons. But the truth is, you're a failure. The rest of us are doing the best we can, we're scrabbling up the ladder. You? You've fallen so far down already that your own mamma wouldn't recognise you. Commodore.” He leans back again, and laces his fingers together on the table. “So – you screwed up, and the goods just became worthless.” And Badger names a sum which is a tiny fraction of the sum he had mentioned at this same table a few days earlier.

There is a pause.

“Right,” says Mal conversationally. “We could accept that offer. Or we could just keep the booty, shoot you in the face, and take this here plate of delicious fruit, along with whatever small change you happen to have in your pockets.”

One of Badger's hired thugs draws a dagger from his belt and starts sharpening its edge on a whetstone, whistling softly under his breath. The other, evidently of a rather less subtle turn of mind, draws his pistol and levels it at Mal. And suddenly Jayne's pistol is levelled, in turn, at the thug, and Zoe's is pointing right at Badger.

Badger tosses the remains of his chickenbone towards the fire, and picks up an apple. “Is this the part where you try to intimidated me?” he says, sounding bored.

“We did the job. So now we get paid.”

Badger shakes his head pityingly. “I've got news for you, Commodore. You're an independent contractor now, and nobody owes you a blessed thing. You don't work for the King, and you don't work for me – you work for yourself.” He glances at Zoe and Jayne, and then looks back at Mal. “So here's the situation: you have some goods for sale, but their value has just dropped like a stone. You don't like hearing that? Well, it's no skin off my nose, friend. sell 'em some place else.” His gaze wanders back to Zoe, and his expression shifts. He licks the chickengrease off his lips, and his voice takes on a more speculative note. “ 'Course, you do have other goods you might turn a profit on, if you've a mind to.”

Mal's eyes narrow, and his hand does finally drop to the butt of his pistol.

“Permission to shoot this treacherous, malodorous bilge rat in the face, Cap'n?” says Zoe, and her voice might have a very tiny shake to it, but her hand is steady as a rock and her eyes are cold as the Atlantic Ocean.

Mal draws a breath to answer, and for a moment it appears that the evening is going to take a turn for the messy, until Mistress Serra strolls up to the table with a bottle of rum and a smile sweet enough to break a man's heart at twenty paces.

“What's this I hear about you acquiring a collection of fine fabrics, Mr Brocklehurst?” she says, her voice low and sweet and far too refined for a place such as this, and she's smiling at Badger like there aren't cocked pistols and unsheathed blades on every side. “Why, that must be the best news I've heard in weeks! To be sure, my girls are in desperate need of new finery to help display their charms, and we've dyes a-plenty if the colours aren't to our liking! I should have known that we could count on a resourceful gentleman such as yourself to be thinking selflessly of our – needs.” She drops her eyes modestly, and then looks up at Badger through her lowered lashes, and he's mesmerised in spite of himself. Mal grits his teeth. Inara glances at him with an expression of disinterest, and then turns her attention back to Badger. “But you must forgive me – I see that you gentlemen are still conducting your business! How inappropriate of me to interupt! Please accept this little gift on the house, to make your transaction go a little smoother.” She leans closer to Badger, her dark curls swinging gently, and Badger's gaze slides inevitably down to her plunging decolletage. Mistress Serra never does go with customers herself, but she has a way of leading a man to hope that possibly, just possibly, she might be prepared to make an exception in his case. Badger swallows, and Captain Mal Reynolds crushes the remains of the orange in his hand (continued...)