Disclaimer: Nope, still isn't mine.

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It's late, and you're sittin' in the cargo bay with River all piled up in yer lap. Ya got a hand fiddlin' with her hair 'cause truth be known ya got a thing for girl hair, and when it's River-girl hair, hell, there ain't a whole lotta other places yer hands had rather be (least not places that don't involve nekkidness an' slidin' flesh an' moans an' sighs - hmm, River-sighs, yet another thing ya got a kind of 'obseshun' with.)

You know the crew don't believe you do a lot of deep thinkin', and truth be told, awhile back, they woulda been right. But it ain't 'cause you can't, it's just 'cause a merc don't really got a need to. Fact of the matter is, thinking overmuch can be pretty hostile to a merc's health. You hadn't been hirin' yerself out for too long afore you figured out that mullin' over stuff was a right quick way ta bein' stabbed, shot or straight out dead. When you and another gun got yer sights aimed at each other, if you're takin' time ta ponder whether or not the other guy's got a missus and kids who'd miss 'em, or whether he wants ta be here at all, ya soon find yerself seein' daylight where a part of yer body used ta be. So you learned pretty quick ta act on instinct, without gettin' bogged down in the whys. 'Course that led logical like ta not worryin' 'bout what you did after it's done, 'cause you'd seen guilt kill just as many mercs as thinkin', and you've got a powerful desire ta keep livin.'

But, still, you can think, and somehow, since Mr. Universe's moon, you find you've been doin' a mighty lot of it. First it was tryin' ta figure out why all of a sudden yer need for credits was a whole lot less than yer need to blow a hole in whoever was lookin' at any of the crew sideways. It didn't take too much to realize that particular oddity had been comin' since before Miranda, maybe since that gorram Mudder kid, but definitely since Ariel. You wince, like you do every time you think on Ariel. There ain't much