Disclaimer: Dude, Fox, if you're serious enough to sue, you should have been serious enough to keep the show on the air. Joss, I love you. No copywright infringement upon your marvelous creation is intended.

Author's Note: As in all "Ways We Never Met" stories, the lyrics are Matthew Ryan's property.

Songs are souvenirs of the peace that hasn't come.

And if it never does, better still that they be sung.

When they staggered out of the ratholes and lined up in front of Deane, their ragged band of thirty-five including Bolis, who'd started talking to himself some days ago, and Reggie, who liked carving Bible verses in the purplebellies' flesh, Mal felt a sharp burst of joy at the horror in the general's face.

He'd sent them a thousand strong into Serenity Valley, and thirty-five strong they came out of it. Mal wanted to take the general down the nearest hole, show him where they slept and ate these last six weeks while HQ dined on salmon, napped on cotton sheets.

Unable to believe it, for which Mal couldn't hardly blame him, Deane asked, "Where are the others?" and went white to match his silvery hair when Zoe gestured to the Pile, tarpaulin not quite covering the bodies they'd run out of room to bury.

All the general said was, "Thank you, sergeant." It wasn't enough, but then, nothing would have been.

He will never tire of this, the feel of fine whiskey burning down his throat. Bolis is plugging the jukebox with his one good arm, singing along with the rock and roll chorus that starts out, "It's all right, it's all right, it's all right." Singing it into Reggie's face, and Reggie's grinning, snaggletoothed and still dirty after three hot showers. Mal would run from them both if he met them in a dark alley, but right now he could kiss them, lovable scamps, closer than brothers, right now he'd trust them with his life savings, with his life.

He will never tire of this, Mal swears to himself, of singing browncoat songs in a browncoat bar. For the rest of his life, he will celebrate this day.